New chapter.  One more to go, and then an epilogue to wrap up a few final matters.  This is Nathan's last appearance, and I think that I'm satisfied at how he ends it.  I left his history with Greg purposefully a little ambiguous - - made a few things clear, but Warrick (who stars in this chapter along with Grissom) and Grissom himself make their own points.  As to the specifics, I'll leave you to your own conclusions.

Oh, Greg's fate - - next chapter.  Just so you know.

And - - to Finger Smith - - the answer about the title is in the notes at the beginning of Chapter Fifteen.

Enjoy, and wave goodbye to Nathan.  In fact, give him a good kick in the pants on his way out the door - - trust me, I did.  What?  Just because I invented him doesn't mean I can't hate him just as much as you do.

**

Chapter Seventeen: You Pick Your Battles

**

Catherine left before Trey's interrogation.  Her face was newly-lined from lack of sleep and Grissom was more than happy to see her go.  Despite his fondness for her, their trip to and from Amble had been too intense.  He'd had to share things he would have preferred to keep to himself, and with his own memories and futures running through his head, he was grateful to trade her companionship for Warrick's, who was on-duty and well-rested.  Warrick didn't demand emotions from him.

"Brass says they're set to interrogate Robertson," he told Warrick, after sketching in the circumstances they'd found him in.  "Since he tried to flee - - and with all the evidence we've got against him - - the arrest is sure."

"I've got something even better for you."  Warrick handed him a sheaf of paper.  "Finally got that search warrant for Robertson's apartment.  Found his gun."

"White paint?"

"Sprayed around the muzzle.  It's the newest fad for target-shooters - - it showcases their gun."  Warrick tapped the image and stats.  "Not exactly a high-powered, fine-tuned machine, but it would have done the job.  And it's generic enough to have been hard to trace, if it wasn't for the paint.  This guy wasn't exactly experienced, was he?"

"No record."

"Why this time?  Why Greg?"

Grissom's mouth twisted.  "His girlfriend asked him to."

Warrick gave a low, disgusted whistle between his teeth.  "Boy must have been whipped."  They stopped at the door, standing outside.  Warrick nodded.  "We going on?"


Grissom started to nod and then considered.  They had the evidence.  The white paint - - the shoe-marks - - even Robertson's DNA under Greg's fingernails.  Why give him an audience?  Why hike up his emotions a little more?  Why face a person that disgusted him?  Brass could pull off the interrogation on his own; it was simply a matter of getting everything in order now.  Robertson had no chance of getting off without charges.

"No," he said.  "I don't think so."

Warrick raised his eyebrows.  "You usually like to get the last word."

"I've got the last word."  He held up the paper with the gun stats.  "He doesn't get anything."

"I get it," Warrick said.  "You don't think he deserves another chance to get on your nerves, right?"

"You'd be surprised at what I've been thinking lately," Grissom said.  "Particularly about what certain people deserve."

"Better be careful, man.  I'm starting to understand you."

"I'll read another book on Zen and confuse you more tomorrow.  Right now, I'm tired."

Warrick's smile was equally weary.  "I stopped by the hospital before I came over.  The doctors keep saying the same thing.  No change.  I'd ask for the odds," the smile quirked on his face and almost became a scowl, "but I'm not a gambling man anymore."

"I've got the odds."

"You asked?"

He closed his eyes; sighed.  "Nathan."

"Damn.  I knew I hated that guy.  What did he give you?"  Warrick stopped him, shoving one hand forward in the air as if he could slam the nuances of speech Grissom's lips had started to form back into him, mouth to larynx to lungs to nerve endings.  "Forget it.  I don't want to know.  I'll take my chances on this one."

"They said that they've got him."

The sudden intrusion of a third voice into their conversation was unnerving, and both men recoiled slightly, and Grissom a little more, once he recognized it.

"Nathan," he said.

Nathan strode towards them.  He'd changed into stiffer clothes, like a lawyer preparing for an important court-date.  For a second, Grissom reeled between delusion and reality, and almost felt the artificial grass of the cemetery under his feet, and heard Nathan's sour tones, God grant he lie still.  He also wanted to tell Nathan that he'd been, even in a daydream, extremely satisfied with bloodying his nose, and, given the proper provocation, would be happy to do it again, for real, and maybe more.

Warrick looked no less revolted.  "Why are you here?"

"I don't think you've found a way to kick me out of the LVPD offices yet," Nathan said bitterly.  "I'm a father here to see my son's attacker."

Grissom came forward, almost nose-to-nose with Nathan.  "You've been under my skin since you got here.  You know that there's no one here who'd even stop you from drowning.  So why don't you save whatever goodwill you've got left and leave?"

"Why, Dr. Grissom," Nathan said with a horribly prim tone, "I am leaving.  Gregory hasn't taken any sudden turns for the worst, and I feel no more reason to stay."

"Good," Warrick said.  "Leave, then."

"I have a few matters to wrap up first.  This - - Robertson.  He'll be charged, I trust?"

"Yeah.  Why do you care?"  Warrick was nearly as close to Nathan as Grissom was, and his eyes were dark with anger.  "You don't give a damn about Greg."

"Maybe not," Nathan said, shrugging.  "He was troublesome as a child and I suspect he's just as troublesome as a man.  I've done some digging in your absence, Dr. Grissom," he said, directing his new comments away from Warrick, "and it doesn't particularly surprise me to learn that Gregory imploded his own lab.  I expect the costs were enormous."

"It isn't in the records that Greg was to blame."

Nathan's smug look faltered momentarily.  "His lab.  His fault.  I thought the connection was rudimentary."

"Not quite," Grissom said.  "His lab - - someone else's fault."  He deliberately kept Catherine's name out of it.  He still remembered her story of the apology, and Greg offering weakly to take the blame, and so unconditionally forgiving her.  In front of Nathan, the memory stung.  No wonder Greg had no problem being blamed for something he hadn't done - - he'd probably been faced with that his entire life.  "He almost died."

"Then you can't be doing a very good job protecting him, Dr. Grissom.  Does that bother you?"

"Occasionally," Grissom admitted.

"I told you so."  It was a child's words, and there was a dark glitter in Nathan's eyes, something akin to malice, possessive and bright.  "I told you that he'd cause nothing but trouble."

"Mr. Sanders," Warrick said calmly, "as a CSI - - I'd appreciate it if you'd leave.  Actually, I'd appreciate it if you'd get the hell out of here, but . . . decorum."  He smiled.  "You're a borderline psychotic.  If Greg's a little hyperactive, I still think we got the better end of the deal.  And you never answered my question."

"What?"

"Why do you care?"

"Because," Nathan said, "no one takes what's mine.  He left, but he didn't get away.  Do you really think that he forgot about his family?"  He shook his head slowly, as if dismayed by Warrick's ignorance.  "I don't like it when what I own is damaged."

"You don't own Greg," Grissom said.

"Neither do you."

Warrick had his hand against the door and was pushing hard.  His fingers looked bloodless.  "We've got the better claim."

"You've had him for, what, five years?  Wait ten more.  Tell me then if you still think he's such a wonderful responsibility to have."

"Don't make me go away, Grissom.  Please.  I don't wanna leave."

Grissom felt an unexpected shiver crawl over his back and the skin on his arms.  Gooseflesh.  He couldn't say a word, and was glad that Warrick took over.

"He's not a responsibility," Warrick said heatedly.  "And he's not a possession."

"How sweet.  He's your friend.  Then I wonder why he keeps getting hurt, and why there's never anyone there to save him."

"We're trying," Grissom said.

"Yeah," Warrick retorted.  "More than you ever did."

"I did a lot for that boy.  Gregory would have been nothing without me.  I molded him.  It's nothing more than a father's responsibility."

Grissom felt a dim suspicion dawn on him.  "How exactly did you mold Greg?"

Nathan's smile was thin and razor-sharp.  "I never hit him.  Never touched him.  I thought that you might be thinking that - - with the things you see.  You'd like it to be so simple.  The truth is, I never had to hit Gregory to teach him a lesson.  Can you understand that, Dr. Grissom?  He wanted someone to be in control.  He wouldn't have known what to do without proper discipline."

"What I understand is that you didn't have to hit Greg to hurt him," Grissom said.

"And you didn't have to hurt him to be a bad father," Warrick added.

"I was all he had."

Warrick retorted, "Then he would have been better off with nothing."  He tugged at Grissom's coat sleeve.  "Come on.  This case is closed."  Grissom followed Warrick down the hallway, and turned back to see Nathan standing there, still.

"You aren't all he has now," Grissom said softly, but he knew that Nathan heard him.  "And he doesn't need you anymore."

He would have felt more satisfaction from that parting blow if he had known it was the last time he would ever see Nathan Sanders again.