Disclaimer: As stated in the first chapter, but a little something more... All the real, living persons that appear in this fic obviously do not belong to me, and I try not to do any damage to them (unless you count making Hewitt lose damage *g*). The characters that I've made up (Sam Kempler, Dr. Rebecca Fletcher, Will Stanrov, Michael McKinley, Dr. Hasa Murzat, the "one-line-persons" [and the ones to come, if any others show up]) are not based on real persons. Any resemblance to anyone out there is just a coincidence, I'm afraid. However, these aforementioned characters are my original ones, so don't use them in other stories without my permission.
A/N: Thanks for the reviews, everyone! Just to let you know, this story will still be going on for awhile, if I have anything to say about it. I know this because I just wrote chapter eight(ish). Don't ask me why I wrote it now, though (or why it's chapter eight from all the numbers that exist after five). ;) I just have a bad habit of writing "backwards". Well, anyway, still very sorry if some of the medical stuff is off. I tried to be vague enough so it wouldn't be bothering anyone too much. If anyone out there, who knows about medical stuff, notices something weird, please, let me know.
Lady Lenna: Oh, you're such a hyperbunny! *g* Your reviews really cheer me up, so keep em coming!
DrinkSparkyCola: So, I take it that my goal was achieved with the last chapter. Now I've got you all wrapped around my finger! MUAHAHAA! :) Just kidding...
Rainbowsnstars (about An Old Friend): Sorry, I came upon a dead end. No more of it.
sparkycola1: *lol* Okay, okay, don't jump outta your skin, coz here we go... (this is a long one for a change)
CHAPTER FIVE
The white sheets glowed in the dim room, the steady rhythm of the heart monitor filled up the silence. Bright light filtered through the blinds from the corridor, the dimness eating away the hard edge of it as it traveled across the room and landed heavily on the form sleeping under the sheets, crawling over the skin and fabric. Soft breathing sounded all over the recovery room amongst the beeping and the humming of the machinery as the occupants of the other hospital beds dreamt their pains away much like the young man, who rested with drug-saturated ease, unaware of the eyes on him.
Outside the blinded window stood three figures watching the steady rising of the man's chest; a tall, dark-haired man, whose once relieved smile had turned into a weary frown; a woman, whose eyes hid behind locks of strawberry blonde hair as she bowed down her head and stared at her feet; a doctor, who kept her eyes on her patient even as she continued speaking. "I'm afraid he has a lost a lot of blood. Because of that, we were forced to abort the surgery. We managed to repair the artery, though I'm afraid we cannot completely trust the stitches to hold. He will need another operation once he is more stable, mostly for his ribs but also to secure the bindings. The next twenty-four hours are crucial. We hope him to make it through the night without further complications."
The tall Texan shifted his weight from foot to foot uneasily, tucking his hands tighter around his torso. "If he doesn't?" Nick almost whispered.
"As I said, his condition is still critical, and as much as I'd like to be optimistic, I don't want to bring any false hope," Dr. Fletcher stated softly, casting a sympathetic look on the young CSI. "Cardiac arrest is never easy on the body, not to mention the heart. But --" She gave a little pause to emphasize her upcoming words. " -- at the moment, he doesn't seem to be in any immediate threat. As soon as his body reproduces enough blood for us to go back into the theatre, we will. After that, all he has to do is fight his way through this."
"Will he recover completely?"
"I'm afraid it's too early to tell, Mr. Stokes. He would have to wake up first." Silence landed on the three for a little while. Doctor Fletcher eyed the CSIs, noticing that they were slowly drifting deep into their own thought. Catherine still had her head bowed as she avoided... What? Eye-contact? Looking at the man in the hospital bed? Dr. Fletcher let her own eyes wander to the young man's peaceful form. She pursed her lips together, then forced a small, assuring smile and cleared her throat. "Should you need anything, anything at all, don't hesitate to call the nurse," she spoke softly before starting to leave.
Catherine's head bounced up, as if just then registering the presence of the doctor, and she whirled around to face her. Her voice stopped Dr. Fletcher. "Did you... Did you get the bullet out? It's an important piece of evidence," she rushed to explain her demand as Dr. Fletcher's eyes widened with questioning.
"Yes. Yes, we did," the surgeon answered.
"I... We need it. Could you...?" Catherine let her voice trail off in search for the right words, but Dr. Fletcher understood what she meant and nodded.
"Of course, Ms. Willows. I'll see that it's done." Then she nodded her farewell and left the two CSIs alone.
Catherine let her eyes stay on the retreating figure and it wasn't until the white-coated doctor vanished behind the corner that she turned her attention back to the form that lay in the hospital room. She pursed her lips together and glanced at Nick, only to find him looking back at her. She shrugged. The action seemed to take a huge amount of effort, as if her shoulders were heavy and numb. She let her tiredness flow out with a sigh. "Shall we?" she asked, nodding towards the door of the room.
***
Quiet voices in the corridors.
Voices whispered inside the glass walls, echoing from the concrete and the tiles; behind the corners, the doors left ajar; over the table into an ear eager to hear. Voices served with the additional mug of coffee only poured for social purposes, more seldom for the actual need of caffeine intake.
"Did you hear about the..."
"Heard it was a cat burglar."
"Cat burglar? Here? Don't be stupid."
"I heard it was a hitman. Been messing with the wrong crowd."
"Yeah, something to do with drugs."
"Oh, please. An' you say I'm stupid?"
"Hey! Tha's all I heard."
Not even ten hours full and already it had become official, deliciously juicy office gossip.
Warrick gritted his teeth together as he strode closer. He could hear the whispers more clearly now, luring him into approaching, fueling his growing anger. One voice sounded the clearest over the others. "Besides, it wouldn't be a surprise considering..." The voice trailed off insinuatingly.
Warrick stopped in the doorway, fixing his glare on the lab-coated man who sat at his desk, smiling cockily up at his fellow gossipmongers, some male interns whom Warrick didn't recognize. The other one rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and shook his head. He turned to leave the room but froze as he spotted Warrick in the doorway. His mouth dropped open. "Uh..."
Warrick didn't bother paying attention to him as he kept his eyes on the man sitting in the chair. "Considering what?" he spoke evenly, yet managing to soak his voice with detest.
The interns both went blazingly red, glancing at each other nervously as if by a mutual agreement to do so. The labtech whirled around in his chair, surprised, his eyes widening at the sight of the CSI. "Nuhnothing," he sputtered.
Warrick's eyes narrowed, and he took a step into the room. "No, please, do tell, Hodges. Considering what, exactly?" he insisted with fake sweetness.
The man glanced nervously at his previous companions of conversation. He didn't get much help from them though, and the tip of his tongue darted out to moisten his lips. "Well, you know..."
Another step ahead, closer to the now squirming man. "No, I don't know. What?"
"Uh -- Well, the way he's so... you know, hyper all the time, bouncing all over the place and -- uh --" Hodges looked warily at the still approaching man. " -- smiling like a mani -- um, silly person," he stuttered out. He had to crane his neck all the way back to look at the black man now standing right in front of him. He gulped and blurted: "Well, he's gotta be high on something." An awkward laugh erupted from his throat, a smile briefly invading his face. The smile died away under Warrick's cold glare. Hodges raised his hands up with resignation. "Hey, don't blame me, I don't make this stuff up, it's just what I heard."
"Listen you little weasel," Warrick suddenly spat out, bending closer to Hodges face and grabbing the armrests on either side of the man. "If I ever hear you saying as much as a word of disparage about him again, I swear to God, you had better watch --"
"Warrick," a stern voice called out from the doorway. The CSI glanced over his shoulder. Gil Grissom stared levelly back at him, his entire body glowing of professionalism as he fixed Warrick with a disapproving and hard look. "I need you in the hallway." As Warrick took a second before moving, he added with an eyebrow arched demandingly: "Now, if you please."
Warrick straightened his back and followed his supervisor into the hallway, but not without taking one last glance at Hodges. The slimy man didn't move a muscle but his eyes glinted with satisfaction and triumph and Warrick could swear he saw the tiniest smirk on his face. He jogged to Grissom's side, who was already striding down the corridor.
Once out of earshot from the gossips, Grissom opened his mouth without braking his pace - he merely shot an annoyed glance at the younger CSI: "The staff is short by three, cases are flowing in as the night gets older and the people drunker, Ecklie's not pleased to say the least that his team is working a double, not to mention the obvious problem that everyone's a mess because an act of violence was committed against one of their own in their place of work. We don't need any childish bickering on top of it all," he spoke, keeping his voice steady, but even through the thick outer crust Warrick could sense that inside he was anything but calm.
That didn't stop Warrick from protesting. "But you didn't hear what he was saying about Greg!" Warrick yelped at his boss.
"I don't care, and neither should you," Grissom said as they reached what apparently was their destination, his office. He went to the desk and picked up a brown file. He browsed through it half-heartedly. "It's Hodges. He's just trying to get attention, never mind how. No one believes him, at least not for longer than two seconds," he stated and then lifted his eyes back at Warrick. "Don't let him lure you into his games. We don't need an internal investigation right now."
"But..."
"No buts, Warrick," Grissom cut in sharply. He shoved the file towards the other man. "Here. Take a look at this."
Warrick glanced at him, surprised. "What's this?" he asked as he reached out his hand and took the file.
"Michael McKinley."
Warrick's eyebrows almost shot to the roof. "Michael McKinley? As the multimillionaire Michael McKinley, who owns five of the most popular clubs in Vegas, not to mention three casinos? That McKinley?"
Grissom nodded. "Exactly. To add to your list of recommendations, he's also been watched by the police for quite some time because... Well, let's just say that some of his businesses seem less than honorable."
Warrick opened the file and browsed through the first two pages. He frowned. "This is that murder of a prostitute, from last week. There was a small amount of fiber and DNA evidence but the case was closed because of the lack of further leads." He looked up from the pages. "What does this have to do with McKinley?" he intrigued.
"The case is reopened. We have new leads now. Ones that get us to Michael McKinley."
An amazed expression invaded Warrick's face. "How?"
For a second there, Grissom looked strangely uncomfortable. He shifted his weight from foot to foot before crossing his arms on his chest and leaning against the edge of his desk. "We made a deal," he finally stated after a long pause.
Warrick frowned. "With whom?" he asked, but even as the words spilled from his mouth, realization dawned on him and his face fell. "You have got to be kidding..." he groaned with disbelief, shaking his head. His face twisted with irritation as he glared at his boss. The fact that he was avoiding his eyes only proved that he was right. "You made a deal with him?" he exclaimed throwing his hand into the air. "So, what now? He's just gonna walk? Get immunity? Do some community service? After he shot Greg? For Christ's sake, Griss..."
It was Grissom's turn to look irritated. "It's not that kind of a deal. We didn't give him a get-out-of-jail-card, we gave him protection. For him and his family," he snapped. Warrick eyed him suspiciously, and Grissom heaved a tired sigh. He closed his eyes for a second and pinched the bridge of his nose to collect himself. When he spoke again, his voice was more restrained. "He's going to give us all he knows about McKinley and his businesses provided that we move his family into a safe-house and he won't get maximum sentence." He rose his hand to silence Warrick before he could protest. "McKinley is not exactly an honest businessman. His money doesn't come from just running his clubs and casinos. Those places exist just to maintain his innocent front and provide him with desperate suckers like Sam Kemper to take advantage of. Most of his fortune comes from drug dealing, not to mention frauds, black-mailing, and illegal trading in arms. We also suspect that he's more or less connected to two other murders. We've had an eye on him for a long time, but this far we haven't had any hard evidence." He shrugged. "This is our chance to finally get him. It might be our last."
Warrick shook his head promptly as if to clear his head. "Wait a minute. So you're saying that McKinley hired Sam to, to... get rid of the evidence on the prostitute murder, is that it?"
Grissom nodded. "Basically, yes, but he didn't hire him as such, more like persuaded him with a couple of thugs. Apparently, Sam is a bit of a gambler. One of McKinley's casinos was his usual place, and he got into a lot of debt to the house. Fifty-thousand dollars. He's been paying it off with some "favors". At first, it was just small errands, until two days ago McKinley gave him a gun and instructions to get the DNA samples from the evidence room. The rest of the story we know."
"And now that we can connect McKinley to the murder, we'll get a warrant for his DNA, which probably will match with the sample we already have," Warrick added, more as a statement than a question. Grissom nodded. "Why are you showing this to me, then?" he asked, giving a little wave with the file that he grasped in his hand.
Grissom pushed himself off the edge of the desk and walked behind it. He grabbed his jacket from where it lay on the armrest of his chair. "Because you're taking over the case for me," he calmly stated before pulling the jacket on.
Warrick blinked in amazement a couple of times. "Wuhwhat? Why?" He couldn't believe that Grissom was just handing over such big a case. From what he'd gathered, Grissom had been chasing this man for years. But now the supervisor just snatched his car keys from where they lay on the desk and started for the door.
With a tiny, one-sided smile the gray-haired man said, "Because I have something I have to do," and walked out of the door, leaving the dumbfound black man standing in the middle of the now empty office.
***
It hurt like hell. And in the back of his mind he had a vague feeling that it was about to get worse - given enough time. He felt as if burning hot needles were constantly being poked into his flesh. The pain thudded in his chest and in his side. It was the pain that finally forced him into awareness, not the silent murmuring voice that kept whispering into his ear. Rangers Liverpool 1-3, Southampton Birmingham 2-0, Chelsea... He frowned, at least he thought he did but he had a feeling that the action wasn't going proceed from an image in his mind to reality.
It was strangely gray. All around just gray. Or... no, not gray, more like... Red spots on black. Blue. Yes. Definitely blue somewhere in there, too. And, and... A streak of light. Somewhere in the middle, yes, a streak of light. And the continuos muttering, a soft voice. Srichaphan Harvey 7-5 3-6 6-4, Hewitt Grosjean 6-4 5-7 4-6... He tried to figure out where it was coming from but the voice kept bouncing about, swimming around his head -- he assumed that the heavy lump above the aching spot was his head -- making it impossible to tell the direction. Not that he had any idea where any direction was, up or down, left or right. Buy from Lillington, 20 % off of every purchase over 100 dollars... He would've told the voice to shut up but his throat felt dry and raspy and his lips wouldn't move. He frowned though, and this time it seemed that his muscles obeyed.
There was pressure on his hand then. He could sense it through the hazy blizzard of colors and darkness. A squeeze that sent tinkles all the way up his arm, pleasant ones of that. He tried speaking again but he wasn't sure if anything really came out. ...hear m...
It was then that he realized what the streak of light was. It finally sunk into his head. A streak of light. It wasn't a part of the flying colors and the dark, it was beyond it. And the murmuring voice, its volume now rising, was not in the darkness either, not floating in the black infinity like he'd thought it was, like he'd thought he was. It was outside.
His next command seemed to take forever to leave his brain and end up in its destination. Ages. A lifetime. But finally, the streak of light widened, and not only widened but revealed an entire world outside the numb darkness.
And a two smiling faces, a man and a woman, two smiles that could easily be identical. Just as joyful. The soft voice spoke again, but this time it didn't come from underwater - it sounded loud and clear. "Welcome back, Greg."
TBC...
A/N: Okay, I know this chapter was a bit boring with all the medical and case-file yarning, but I had to get them explained too. Not one of my best ones, I admit, but it'll do.