Enmity

By EB

©2004

Chapter Four

"You didn't tell anyone. Right?"

Catherine sagged down in a chair and shook her head. "Of course not. Gil, what the hell is going on? How's Nick?"

Gil stabbed a button on his keyboard. "Still in MICU." He glanced at her. "According to the hospital, his tox screen was negative. Yours?"

"Nothing."

"Damn it. Nothing at all?"

"Completely clear. Not even a goddamn Tylenol."

"GC? Mass spec?"

She nodded. "Other than his electrolytes are completely screwed, nothing extraordinary."

"No trace alkaloids?"

"No, Gil. I'm telling you: Nothing."

"That can't be." He stared at her, shaking his head. "You've seen him yourself, Cath. People don't get sick like that out of the blue. There has to be a cause. We're missing something."

"Yeah, tell me something I don't already know," she fired back. "But nothing's pinging the radar." She waved a sheaf of printouts. "I got Al to go over a bunch of this with me. He doesn't see anything, either. And if the hospital doesn't –"

Slumping in his chair, Gil gave a brief nod. "What else do we know?" He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "When did Nick get sick the first time?"

"It's been, what? Four weeks?"

Gil gazed at her. "Longer than that," he said slowly. "He was sick at work one night. About – more than a month ago. He spoke to Robbins about it."

Catherine met his look, her brow furrowed. "So five weeks? Six, maybe?"

"And he's always gotten better. And then worse again. It's a clear pattern. He gets – whatever it is he's been getting, gets sick. Stays home, or in the hospital, improves, comes back to work."

"And bam, he's sick again. He's getting it at work, Gil."

"Don't be too hasty. Could be. Or something he brings to work. Lunches? He brings his lunch, doesn't he?"

"Usually."

Gil nodded grimly. "We need to have a look around his house. In his refrigerator, pantry."

Catherine pursed her lips, then dug in her pocket, bringing out a heavy keychain. "Just so happens," she said, "I got his key." At Gil's look she added, "I watered his plants last time he went out of town. Never got around to giving the spare back."

"Just as well."

Desert Palms lay in the same direction as Nick's condo. At Catherine's suggestion they stopped, and Gil spotted Dominguez when they exited the elevator on Nick's floor.

"Mr. Grissom." Dominguez gave him a tired smile, his handshake cool and brief.

Gil nodded. "This is my colleague, Catherine Willows." He waited for them to shake hands, too, and then said, "How's Nick?"

Dominguez considered, and then lifted his chin in the direction of a cluster of chairs near the elevator. "Why don't we talk about Nick?"

Seated, his dour demeanor strengthened. "You already know we haven't found the cause of Nick's illness yet."

"Any theories?"

"Oh, we've got those." Dominguez sighed. "I still haven't completely ruled out pancreatitis to my satisfaction, but his bilirubin levels aren't that out of whack. This could be a vestibular problem – inner ear. And I've scheduled him for an MRI in the morning to rule out long-term problems related to that concussion he suffered last year." He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "But the truth is, we're shooting in the dark. His blood work, his urinalysis – all show the effects of prolonged sickness, but no causative factors that we can detect. Dehydration, electrolyte imbalances, sure. But all that can be attributed to the emesis itself."

Gil glanced at Catherine, who looked horrified, and desperately anxious. Turning back to the doctor, he said slowly, "I have a theory, too. We've put together a timeline of sorts, back to when Nick first became ill. There's a distinct pattern of illness and recovery."

Dominguez's dark eyes narrowed. "Suggestive of what, exactly?"

"I'm not a physician. But if I saw this pattern professionally I'd wonder about poisons."

That clearly shocked the doctor; he drew back a little, mouth open. "But we've ruled out any number of agents already. Chemicals, food-borne pathogens –"

"As have we." Gil sighed. "It's just a theory for the moment. Until I can talk to Nick, I don't know that this theory will prove correct. Certainly if it is a poison it's not one that shows up in the normal array of testing. We've even ruled out some very rare poison types."

Dominguez nodded slowly. "Well, I hope it goes without saying, but if there's anything I can do to assist you, just ask. I'm not…comfortable with sitting around while one of my patients suffers."

"Neither am I. How's Nick doing?"

"He's stable at the moment. If he continues to do well I'll move him sometime today to a regular room." His gaze was troubled. "If you find his illness is caused by a poisonous agent, should the hospital assign security staff? I'm concerned for his safety."

"So are we," Catherine agreed soberly.

Gil considered it. "So far Nick's improved at the hospital, not worsened. Whatever's going on, I don't think it's happening here."

"Okay." Dominguez shrugged. "I'll hold off. But please let me know if anything changes, right?"

"Of course."

"Would you like to see him? I can let you have a few minutes before rounds."

"Absolutely."

Walking into the room, he felt rather than saw Catherine tense next to him. No wonder: Nick was wraithlike on the bed, far too thin, and his color was terrible. But he smiled when he saw them, raising a hand in greeting that still showed the frightening tremor Gil had noted earlier.

"Hey," Nick said hoarsely. "No flowers?"

Catherine snorted. "Just us."

"S'okay. Don't think they let you have 'em up here."

Gil walked around to the other side of the bed while Catherine pulled up a rolling stool. "How do you feel?" Gil asked quietly.

"Better." Nick's tongue slipped out to wet his lips. "Doc's still saying he doesn't know what the hell's wrong with me."

Catherine took Nick's hand between both her own. "That's what he just told us, too."

"Never felt anything like that, last night." Nick frowned. "Last night? What's today? Man, I'm losing track."

Gil smiled. "Friday. It was night before last."

"Oh. Yeah."

Leaning one hip against the bed, Gil continued, "Feel up to talking about it a little? They'll only give us a few minutes."

"Sure."

"Nick, we're not ruling out the idea that this might be – intentional."

Nick's wide eyes were blank with incomprehension. "Huh?"

"That something – or someone – might be doing this to you."

Open-mouthed, Nick just gazed at him for a long moment. "You mean, like – poisoning me?" he said finally, breathless. "You're shitting me."

"It's only a theory right now," Catherine said, squeezing Nick's hand until he looked at her. "To be honest we're grasping at straws. We don't know anything for sure." She waited until Nick's alarmed look faded a little, before shooting Gil a warning glance.

Nodding, Gil said, "Dominguez says he'll probably move you to a regular room today. Why don't we wait until then to talk further?"

"But why?" Nick whispered. "Why would somebody want to –" He broke off, looking stunned. "That's crazy. That's just nuts."

"Look, don't think about this right now." Catherine gave Gil another look, this one scathing. "You need to concentrate on getting better, and that's all. We'll come back by tonight, okay? Check out your new room."

Nick's troubled eyes didn't leave Gil. "All right," he said slowly. "Sure."

In the hallway Catherine rounded on him. "What the hell was that? Scaring the shit out of him? You think that's gonna help?"

Gil regarded her. "Doesn't he have a right to know what we think?" he countered. "If it were you, wouldn't you?"

"You saw him! He looks like hell! The guy's lying there in the goddamn ICU and you're telling him someone's trying to KILL him? We don't even KNOW that yet!"

"It's not my goal to hinder his recovery. But Nick's not just some bystander here, Catherine. I think he has a right to know what we suspect."

She shook her head slowly. "Did you see his eyes? He was so scared, Gil."

Gil nodded. "Maybe he should be scared," he said softly. "I know I am."

"Me, too," she whispered.

TBC. EB.