The old industrial park was south of Henderson, not quite halfway between Henderson and Boulder City, accessible from the highway by two paved roads and one of gravel that was so infrequently used sagebrush was sprouting up through the crushed rocks. The site had been in use in the 70's and 80's, when some farsighted Clark County planners decided that the population was sprawling out that way and businesses would be attracted to the growing area. When it became apparent that the building boom was headed in another direction, the scattering of businesses and warehouses that had been in the park relocated, leaving the abandoned buildings to sit vacant, too far removed from anything useful for squatters to occupy, until the day they would be demolished to make room for the next phase of development on that land.
Patricia Turnbull's white Odyssey van was parked outside of a squat cinderblock structure whose faded red lettering over the front entrance identified it as once being in use by Ajax Industries. The other vehicles on the property were a football field-length away. They had come in running silent, with lights on but not sirens, not wanting to tip their hand and alert their suspect of their arrival.
Now the occupants of those vehicles, led by Captain Jim Brass, were clustered in front of the building and were waiting for a directive. Brass was hesitant to give them one, beyond "stay alert." The SWAT team had not yet arrived, and he was unwilling to make any kind of move without them. He was the ranking officer on scene, and he wished he wasn't. There were five teams of LVPD uniforms who had responded and two teams from the sheriff's department, and he was unwilling to put any of the twelve men and two women at risk by ordering them into the unknown.
The building had multiple entrances: the double doors on the west-facing front, a fire exit on the back side, a door on the north loading-dock side of the building, and a door on the opposite side. Brass commanded teams of three officers each to position themselves in front of the west, east, and north doors, and five men to stand watch by the south-side door. That was the entrance that had drawn his attention, and it was the one he himself stood near. The door was visibly ajar while the others were shut tight. There was a shaft of light coming from the interior, and Brass was able to peer into the crack enough to see the outline of stairs descending, but it wasn't open enough to see beyond that. If SWAT were here they would check to see if the threshold was rigged in any way. But they weren't here, and Brass wasn't going to have anyone on his watch blown into bits by triggering a tripwire.
Brass heard the approach of a vehicle, and he let out a sigh of relief. But it was the paramedic unit that had been called in, told to stand by until they knew what condition the hostages were in. He watched the red rig park amid the cluster of the other cars, trucks, and SUVs and swore under his breath. "Damnit. Where the hell is that SWAT team?" He got on his radio to dispatch and asked for an ETA. When he got off, he was surprised to see Grissom hovering over him.
"Well?" Grissom sounded both impatient and demanding.
"They got caught behind a multi on 582. They're snaking through the backup. They'll be here."
"I don't think we should wait much longer, Jim."
Brass scowled at him in annoyance. " 'We' aren't going to do anything. I told you to stay back." He noticed the rest of the CSIs had moved in closer as well, and he looked at all of them. "I mean it. Get back by the cars."
Brass looked at the dial of his watch in the waning light. It was 6:45, and the autumn evening was settling in. He saw an officer on the front side flick on a flashlight, and then his companions did the same. The five officers with him also turned on their lights, and Brass watched the eight white circles bobbing in the twilight. The lights wouldn't be truly necessary for another half-hour, and Brass knew they were on for the sense of security they provided, however tenuous that might be. He turned on his own flashlight and pointed it away from the building, illuminating a path for Grissom and his team. "Now's good," he told Grissom.
Grissom looked uncertainly at the door. Through that door and down those stairs were his guys, maybe alive, maybe dead by now. He didn't know. He did know he wasn't walking away from them.
Brass could see Grissom's determination. He sighed and decided on a compromise. "All right," he relented. "Then at least go stand by the…"
They all heard the scream. Even the paramedics enclosed in their rig heard it. It was a woman's cry, a single syllable of pure despair that pierced the still, dusky air, that pierced the souls of those whose ears it reached.
"Jim!" Grissom was pleading now. Brass looked at him and then at his officers, all five of whom had drawn their weapons and taken a step forward toward the door. He knew they were ready. He looked once more down the gravel road but he saw no lights approaching. He drew his own weapon and faced the door. He looked back over his shoulder at the uniformed men.
"Stay ten feet behind me," Brass ordered, "until I'm through that door and at the bottom of the steps. Then I want you," he indicated the tallest and largest of the officers, "at my side and the rest of you in two pairs behind us. You keep your weapons drawn and your ears sharp. No one shoots without my go. We've got three hostages down there and we're not going to be putting any bullet holes in 'em."
He pulled open the gray steel door warily and stepped gingerly over the threshold. He moved cautiously down one step and then the next. His foot was poised over the third tier when he heard the unmistakable report of a gunshot. Two of the men behind him shouted in unison "Gun!" and despite Brass's orders, barreled through the door and stood on the step behind him. The tallest officer pushed past them and aligned himself with Brass. Brass motioned with his gun toward the bottom of the steps, an indication for them to follow him down. The bare bulbs at the top and bottom of the stairwell flickered and then went out, the blackness obliterating the narrow passageway in front of them.
Brass and the officer at his side kept both hands firmly on their drawn weapons, but the four men behind them turned on their flashlights, light in one hand, weapon in the other. They pointed both toward the doors at the bottom of the stairwell. Both doors were ajar, but not enough to see inside of them. Brass hesitated for a few seconds, noting the apparatus for the bar and padlock on the right-side door. He jerked his gun at it and moved quickly down the remaining steps, his way guided by the white beams behind him. He nodded to the officer at his side to pull open the door, keeping his arms parallel to the floor, right hand firmly grasping his weapon, left hand lending support.
The door opened wide and Brass stepped into the frame, shouting into the dark interior. "LVPD! Freeze!" The beams of light behind him poked holes in the darkness, and images flickered in and out of the bright circles like the end-reel of an old movie. The suspect was on the cement floor, clutching his gut. Warrick was standing over him, holding a handgun. Beside him was a cot, and Brass could make out the contours of Nick's unmoving body. Caroline Brighton was in the center of the room, oddly heaped onto the floor, her right leg straight out in front of her, the rest of her body hunched into a ball. Her body was shaking, and Brass at first thought she was in convulsions, but then he realized that it was the force of the sobs coming from her that wracked her frame. The sound was chilling; sobs intermingled with whimpers and gasps for air; sharp, quick intakes of breath.
Brass fully entered the room, his gun trained on Richard Turnbull, who was curled on his side on the floor, hands still pressed against his stomach. "Get in here with those lights," Brass yelled, and the other officers pushed forward into the space. Brass nodded to the towering cop who had never left his side. "Get back out there and tell the paramedics to get down here. Tell 'em to call for a second rig."
Brass looked at Warrick, who was breathing hard but who was obviously in complete control of the situation. Warrick took his eyes off Turnbull long enough to acknowledge Brass, and Brass could see the relief on his face. Brass put a hand on his arm. "We've got it from here," he said calmly.
Warrick nodded and handed the gun he had been holding to one of the officers who had come in with Brass. He was only too glad to be rid of it. After he had taken his swing with the cardboard cylinder and knew it had connected, he had only a few seconds of triumph before Turnbull, either intentionally or involuntarily, jerked his finger on the trigger and the gun went off. But the aim wasn't there, and the bullet had lodged in one of the cinderblocks behind the cot. The gun should have been easy enough to wrest from Turnbull's grasp, the killer's hands grabbing for his stomach as he hunched over, the wind knocked out of him. But then the damn lights had gone out, and Warrick had to make the grab for the weapon in the inky blackness. He'd made it, Turnbull too bewildered to put up a fight. Turnbull had collapsed to the floor, and Warrick aligned his shoe with the side of his body, alert to any sudden movement, gun pointed down. He knew he was in charge now, but still, when he heard Brass's gruff "LVPD!" those four letters had never sounded so sweet.
More officers had entered the room, their flashlights making it easier for Warrick to quickly scan around him. Turnbull had been cuffed and two officers yanked him to his feet. The slight man said nothing, but his eyes found Warrick's and Warrick glared at him with undisguised hatred, hazel eyes hard and unwavering, and Turnbull looked away quickly. Brass read him his rights, and he was herded out of the room and up the stairs, an officer on either side of him, Brass following closely behind.
Warrick couldn't savor the victory. On the cot next to him was the too-still form of his best friend, and on the floor in the middle of the room was the woman who loved that friend, so deep in the throes of grief Warrick wasn't sure he would be able to reach her. Warrick watched her uncertainly for a moment but then went to Nick. He had to know that what he was about to tell Carrie was the truth.
Outside, huddled in a tight circle in the twilight shadows, Grissom, Sara, Catherine, and Greg were also waiting for the truth. Greg had tried to push past the officers and follow Brass down the steps when they heard the gunshot, but his way was firmly blocked by two cops who had positioned themselves on either side of the door. Now Brass was coming back out, with Richard Turnbull in cuffs, and the CSIs looked hard at the small, pale man, taking in their first view of the unhinged killer who had murdered so many. As soon as they had cleared the doorway, Greg once again tried to bolt for the steps. But he was forced back by a shouted "Clear the way!" as the paramedics, carrying black cases and followed by two sheriff's deputies holding a stretcher, sprinted for the open doorway.
The way was clear and now the CSIs were allowed down, but this time it was Grissom who held up his hand. He wanted to prepare his team, as best he could, for whatever they would find when they descended those steps. He turned to Brass, who was watching several patrol cars drive up closer and park next to the rig the paramedics had driven to the front of the building.
"Tell us what you know, Jim," Grissom said.
It wasn't a question, and Brass knew it. He looked at Grissom, then at all of the CSIs. "Warrick's fine," he began, and he could hear the audible sighs of relief, could see tense shoulders relax. But then he saw all four of them straighten up again, poised to hear what he had to say next. "Dr. Brighton's injured; gunshot, maybe. I'm not sure. And Nicky…" He remembered how his stomach had lurched when he saw Nick's unmoving and silent form in the flickering beams of light, remembered his backward, final glance at him before he left that room, remembered his desperate hope that he would hear some sound, see some motion, coming from that cot. "Well," he said honestly, "I don't know about Nicky."
In the room below them, Warrick was having the same doubt. His heart was pounding so fast when he put his hand on Nick's uninjured shoulder that he thought for a few seconds that he was going to black out. He drew deep breaths and steadied himself. He shook Nick's shoulder gently. "Hey, bud. Hey, wake up now." There were four cops gathered around the cot, shining their lights down, and Warrick could feel the tension as they all waited for a response. Warrick shook Nick more roughly and he felt his knees buckle in on him when Nick moaned. The man nearest him quickly grabbed him and Warrick leaned on him for support, but then straightened up quickly and with a firm nod to the concerned cop, turned his attention once again to Nick.
Nick mumbled, and Warrick had to bend his head down to hear. He could make out "possum," and he smiled. "Yeah, bro. You played possum. You did real good." He put his hand on Nick's head, let it rest there. "It's over now, Nicky. It's over. Brass is here. We're all okay now."
Nick tried to turn his head toward the source of the sobbing that still filled the room, despite the efforts of the two officers who had knelt beside Carrie and were trying to both comfort her and assess the cause of her distress. But Nick couldn't get the head to move, couldn't get any part of his body to move, couldn't even get his eyes to open to look at Warrick. "Carrie…didn't get out…crying," he managed.
Warrick's voice was calm and soothing. "It's okay. She's just worried about you. She's okay, Nick. She just needs to see you. Hold on a minute."
Warrick left Nick's side and went to Carrie. He knelt next to her and took her hand. It was ice cold. He could feel her body shivering. "Let me have your jacket," he said to one of the men who was on the floor with Carrie. He took it and draped it over Carrie's shoulders. She had been crying so hard she fought for breath, and he knew she was hyperventilating. He was desperate to calm her, knew it was his words that had done this to her.
"Carrie," he said firmly. "It's Warrick. Look at me." He put a hand under her chin to force her head up and was about to say something else to her, but two paramedics barreled into the room, both Hispanic men in their thirties, and one of them rushed to Carrie, pushing Warrick roughly out of the way. Warrick moved stubbornly back to Carrie's side.
"What's her name?" asked the paramedic.
"Carrie," Warrick said. "I have to talk to her."
The paramedic was getting out an oxygen mask, at the same time calling Carrie's name. He looked briefly at Warrick. "She's not talking to anyone. She's a minute away from passing out."
Warrick started to protest, but the urgent shout of "I need some information over here!" propelled him to the cot.
The other paramedic hovered over Nick, checking his vitals. He recorded the information, then removed the bandage from the infected shoulder wound and looked up at Warrick.
"What was the caliber of the bullet?"
"Nine millimeter," Warrick answered.
The paramedic shook his head doubtfully. "That's a hell of a big hole for a nine millimeter."
"The son of a bitch put the muzzle of the gun into it after he shot him, tore up the hole," Warrick said bitterly. He heard a woman's gasp and looked up. Catherine, Sara, Greg, and Grissom were all in the room, arriving while his attention was on Carrie. He looked over at them, and he could see in their faces both the relief and happiness of seeing him, but also their concern for Nick and Carrie. He wanted nothing more than to go to them, accept the welcoming hugs he knew Sara and Catherine would have for him, accept the heartfelt slap on the back Greg would give, accept the restrained show of emotion from Grissom, in whatever form he chose to express it. But this wasn't over yet, and after a quick glance of acknowledgement at their presence, he returned his attention to answering the barrage of questions from the paramedic.
"How much blood did he lose?"
Warrick remembered the blood streaming from Nick's back after he had passed out, the heaviness of the sodden tee shirt when he had taken it off. "Close to two pints, maybe. Mostly from the exit wound."
"How long ago was he shot?"
"Twenty-four hours ago, I guess," said Warrick. "A little more. Both wounds happened at the same time."
The paramedic looked up at Warrick sharply. "He was shot twice?"
"Yeah," Warrick said lowly, and he knew now every ear in the room was tuned in. "In the left shin."
"That one a through-and-through, too?"
Warrick shook his head. "No. But the bullet's been…removed."
"Jesus." This from Greg, who was looking at Warrick with undisguised awe and Warrick could see the question he was itching to ask, knew that he would ask later. How the hell did they do that?
If the paramedic had a reaction, he hid it well. He was all business as his questions continued.
"Has he urinated since the incident?"
"No. But he's been vomiting a lot. We tried to keep him hydrated, but…"
The paramedic had another explanation. "Shock," he said.
Warrick knew it, but he still cringed when he heard the word. He was nagged by the thought that he hadn't done enough for Nick. He had kept him warm and hydrated, and at one point had even tried to elevate Nick's legs above his head. But that had caused Nick so much pain that Warrick thought better of it, and he had wrestled with the validity of his decision ever since.
Warrick offered more information without being prompted. "He has a concussion. Lost consciousness."
"How long was he out?"
"I don't know. I wasn't there. Couple hours, at least, I guess."
"Could he tell you what happened?"
"Yeah. He said he got hit on the back of the head with a tire iron."
"That's good."
Warrick looked at him skeptically and the paramedic added quickly, "That he could remember the events prior to the concussion."
The other paramedic joined them. "What are you dealing with?" he asked his partner.
"Septic GSW; through-and-through to the left upper quadrant. High-grade fever; one-oh-five. Shock. He's stable, though. We can wait until we get him up top to start fluids." He looked over at Carrie. "How's the woman?"
Warrick followed his gaze. Sara and Catherine were on either side of Carrie now. A silver emergency blanket had replaced the officer's jacket. Catherine had her arm around her, talking to her soothingly, and Sara was holding the oxygen mask in place, which Carrie, in her agitation, kept trying to remove.
"Her breathing's more regulated. She has a mask on. She's hypothermic. Not critical. Has a knee injury that seems to be giving her quite a bit of pain. Gave her some morphine, but the pain's hard to assess. She's non-communicative. She's pretty agitated. I gave her Ativan, but it hasn't settled her down much. She could wait for the other team to get here if we can get her to calm down."
"Let's give her a few minutes, see how she does." The paramedic looked back at Nick, then nodded to the two sheriff's deputies who had come in with the stretcher. "Okay. Let's load him up."
The two paramedics positioned themselves at either end of the cot, ready to grasp Nick's legs and shoulders and transfer him to the stretcher.
"Wait." Warrick stood next to the paramedic at the head of the cot and grasped his arm. "Wait a minute."
The paramedic shook his head. "We've got to get him up those stairs and get fluids in him. Now." He tried once again to grasp Nick's shoulders, but Warrick's grip tightened.
"Wait, damnit!"
All eyes were on Warrick and they watched incredulously as he went to Carrie and removed the oxygen mask, then scooped her off the floor into his arms. He carried her over to the cot and set her gently in one of the chairs next to Nick. He held her steady. Whatever she had been given was doing the trick, because she was definitely starting to relax. He kept an arm around her, afraid she would sway off the seat.
Carrie looked at Nick, his eyes closed, his body still. She shook her head back and forth. She finally found words. "Not saying good-bye. Can't."
"Then say hello." Warrick looked Carrie in the eyes, made sure she was focusing on him. "Carrie. Listen now. Nick's not dead. He's got a fever, but he's going to be fine. He's not dead, Carrie."
Carrie looked at him in confusion, not believing. "But you said…"
"I know what I said. It was a trick. I'm sorry, Carrie."
Nick stirred, feeling Carrie's presence next to him. He pinpointed all of his energy into moving his right arm and hand. He reached for her. Carrie grasped his hand, then bowed her head and wept. Tears of relief, Warrick knew, but her body once again shook with sobs. What she said next let him know that she really was out of it.
"That wasn't funny, Warrick," she accused between sobs.
Warrick put both arms around her this time and hugged her tight. "No, girl. It wasn't funny." He knew he'd have to wait for another time to explain to her what had happened, how he had taken Turnbull down, how Brass had arrived.
"We've got to move him now," one of the paramedics said firmly. Warrick nodded and tried to get Carrie to release her grip on Nick's hand, but he ended up prying her fingers away from his. The men moved Nick from the cot to the stretcher and began to carry him toward the door. They paused when Nick called out. Warrick heard his name, stronger than he thought Nick would be able to say it. He went to him, leaving Carrie with Sara and Catherine.
"Whatcha need, bro?" Warrick asked.
"Get Carrie out of here, Warrick," Nick said. "Don't leave her down here, man."
Warrick realized Nick had heard the paramedics talking about Carrie waiting for another unit to arrive. He grasped Nick's hand firmly. "No way. I got this. I got this one, Nicky." Nick returned the pressure and Warrick watched as he was carried out of the room, the passage lit by the beams from the flashlights of Greg and Grissom, who were following behind. Grissom paused briefly and put his hand on Warrick's shoulder, looked him steadily in the eye. There were no words spoken, no need for any, and Warrick simply returned his gaze and nodded an affirmation. But Greg just kept moving forward, seemed to Warrick pretty motivated just to get out of that room.
Warrick had called it right. Greg was more unnerved by the scene in that basement than he wanted to admit. The room smelled of blood, and he could see the crimson-stained cement at the far end, knew it was the blood of Jenna Scott and Ruth Murphy and Allison Harrington. Names he had come to know so well these past few days. That his friends had been held here for over twenty-four hours was horrifying. But the most disturbing thing was the sight of Caroline Brighton, crumpled on the floor in near hysteria. He barely recognized her. She was so far removed from the confident, poised woman he had so recently seen that he couldn't fathom what might have happened in this room to bring her to this. He knew it would all come out, but for now, he didn't want to know, wasn't sure he could handle knowing at this moment. For now, he just wanted to go up the stairs, wanted to be by Nick's side as he was tended to, wanted to ride with him to the hospital and assure him that this was all over now.
Catherine and Sara wanted to assure Carrie of the same thing. They huddled over her, watching her with cautious relief as the sobs abated. Warrick came to them and knelt in front of Carrie and took both her hands in his. "I've got her," he said to the two women, the tone of his voice letting them know they were no longer needed. What he and Carrie and Nick had shared here was not over until Nick and Carrie were safely on their way to the warmth and cleanliness of Desert Palm, and until then, he was, as he had always been, their stalwart support. He was not yet ready to relinquish his role.
"Come on, girl," he said to Carrie as he lifted her up. "Let's get out of here." He carried her to the door, looking overhead briefly as he heard stomping feet in the rooms above him, supposed it was the SWAT team. He wondered fleetingly why it had been Brass and his officers and not SWAT who had first entered this room, but the thought quickly passed and he focused on his goal. He walked out to the landing and looked up at the fifteen steps in front of him, flashlights at the top entrance illuminating the passageway like the proverbial light at the end of a tunnel. He smiled at the analogy and with great satisfaction he did what he had so desperately wanted to do an hour ago. He held Carrie in his arms and without a backward glance carried her up those steps, away from this killing field, and out into the pure, crisp autumn air.
