Evidence

Sara glanced at Warrick, then at Catherine. Both looked a little dumbfounded at Grissom's statement.

"Why would the evidence relate to Nick?" she boldly voiced. Grissom shot her a look.

"His email. Jane Galloway being posed like his prom date," he said. "And the fact that Crane didn't kill Nick."

The mention of Nick and 'kill' in the same sentence made everyone stop. They glanced at each other, heads low and worry evident. No one wanted to voice their worst fear.

"Let's get going," Warrick said, charging ahead to look for anything and everything.

They spread out, each finding a corner or room to work with. Catherine found herself in the kitchen. She swiped a hand at her blond hair, tucking shorter strands behind her ear. Her eyes were focused on the floor.

She opened up the cabinet Nick had found. The red drops inside caught her attention immediately.

"Not blood," she said out loud. But about the same shade of the hair dye used on Jane, she thought.

Suddenly something dropped heavily behind her. Catherine shot to her feet and screamed.

Grissom seemed unfazed by her reaction as he launched into an explanation.

"He lives up there. Not down here," Grissom said. He held up a small tape. "And he has quite the video collection."

-------

The house was a split-level track home, not uncommon but certainly not normal. There weren't many homes this close to Lake Mead. But in this dusty and tree-covered corner of the lake, a dark truck pulled up to the lone house.

Inside, Nick tried to open his eyes.

Ow. Pain was all that seemed to register at the moment. Slowly he tried again. He blinked several times, and was grateful it was dark. Nick moved his right arm, but groaned and stopped. His wrist was aching. His head hurt too. With his other arm, he felt his forehead.

It was sticky. Nick could smell the copper. Blood.

What happened? He tried to sit up. A wave of pain hit him in the chest. He winced and groaned at that.

"Sorry about that, Nick," someone said from across the room. Nick's eyes shot open wide. He looked around, noticing now the old furniture, the smell of dust, and . . . and the dark figure casually watching him.

Nick swallowed hard.

"Who are you?" He hoped his voice was as stern as he wanted it to be. Slowly, he pulled himself up into a sitting position. He heard the man across from him laugh—but it wasn't funny. It was . . . like he was insulted.

"Who am I?" the man mocked. "You must have hit your head harder than I thought." A lamp came on, and Nick finally saw the man.

But he didn't recognize him.

"I guess so," Nick said slowly. The man stood up and bent over the coffee table, where an array of bandages waited.

"I guess that's my fault," the man said. "You surprised me at my house, so I had to act quickly. I didn't mean for you to get hurt."

House. Crane.

Nigel Crane.

Nick swallowed again. How does he know me?

"So what hurts?" Crane picked up a roll of bandages and moved towards Nick. Nick almost imperceptibly leaned back on the couch, away from Crane.

"I'm okay," he said. His eyes darted around the room, glancing for an escape.

"Now Nick," Crane started with a laugh, "there you go again. You always claim you're fine, but you're not. Let's start with your wrist."

Before Nick could object or move away, Nigel Crane sat next to him and started bandaging his wrist.

Nick swallowed again, not caring that his dry throat felt like a cheese grater. He just watched as Crane wrapped it tightly.

"How're your ribs?" Crane asked next. Nick just stared at him. Hell no. Get out of here now. He would have acted on that, but his body was fighting just to stay conscious. His head was pounding, and each time his heart beat, the pulse aggravated his ribs.

"Lift your shirt up," Crane said. His tone was completely casual, no embarrassment or emotion at all. He might as well have asked for a glass of water. He reached towards Nick, his fingers grabbing an end of the shirt.

"Uh, no, no thanks," Nick said quickly. "I'm fine." He wasn't, and Crane knew it.

"Nick," he said, a reprimanding tone in his voice. "It's not like I haven't seen you without a shirt on before."

Nick froze again.

"What?"

Crane seemed to almost laugh. "Pull up your shirt, Nick." He reached forward again and pulled it up himself. Nick just let him as he tried to process everything.

How has he seen me . . . He didn't really want to think about it, but knew he had to if he wanted to get back home. Nick cleared his throat and tried not to squirm as Nigel Crane's fingers touched his bare chest as he wrapped the next bandage tightly around his ribs.

"You've been in my house?" It came out as a whisper. Nigel laughed.

"Are you kidding? We hang out there all the time. Ever since you got that sports package, remember?"

Sports package.

Cable.

Luna Cable.

Jane Galloway. He was in the attic there.

He swallowed hard again, quickly as his stomach lurched. He was in my attic. Suddenly Nick let out a small yelp. Crane pulled a little too tight on the bandage.

"Sorry," he said to Nick. "But it has to be tight, or it won't do any good." He finished securing it and then moved back to the coffee table for some gauze. "You've got a nasty cut on your forehead." He moved to clean it, but Nick suddenly jerked back.

"Uh, actually," he coughed, "um, let me wash that first," Nick said. "Do you have a bathroom I can use?"

Nigel nodded and pointed to a small room fifteen feet away. Nick got up slowly, pushing himself off the couch with his good arm. He suppressed any groan and quickly made it to the bathroom.

He shut the door behind him before he gasped. His chest heaved as panic swept over him.

What do I do? How do I get out of here? He looked around the bathroom, but there were no windows—just a simple tub, sink and toilet.

I have to go back out there. He gulped back the growing lump in his throat. His stomach churned, and suddenly he couldn't gulp any more.

Nick practically fell by the toilet and grabbed his ribs as anything he ate in the last few hours revisited him.

His body started to shake, and Nick found himself gasping for breath. He stayed there, on the floor, for several minutes.

Get a hold of yourself! Nick braced himself against the floor and pulled himself to his feet. He flushed the toilet and took a look at himself in the mirror. The gash on his head was ugly, but Nick made himself wash it up anyway. It stung, but as the blood was washed away, Nick saw it wasn't too deep.

Okay. You can do this, Stokes. He nodded to his reflection. Find a way out.

He took a deep breath, and reached for the door.

--------

Sara watched the tape. She and the others divided up the collection of tapes.

Divide and conquer.

She leaned forward, suddenly engrossed in what she saw. Nigel Crane spoke to the camera, praising Nick and what a good friend he was. The man was disturbingly close to the camera, and Sara almost leaned back.

"Ask him. Ask Nick. Nick, would you let me stop your heart?"

She hit the stop button and ran to find the others.

"Grissom," she said, invading his office. "I have something."

"Me too," came Warrick's voice behind her. Grissom motioned them in, and Sara started.

"Crane is obsessed with Nick," she said. "He acts like he and Nick are best friends."

"On my tapes, Crane talked about Jane Galloway, and what she would mean to Nick," Warrick added. "She was definitely posed for Nick."

Gil looked pensive for a moment, pressing his hands together and tapping his fingertips against each other.

"So, Nick has been Crane's objective all along," Grissom said. "But what does Crane want Nick for?"

"Friendship," Sara answered. Warrick shot her a look. "Extreme, yes, but he wants to be recognized."

"I think it goes deeper than that," Warrick said, facing Grissom. "I think he wants to be Nick."

Grissom took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "The trouble is," he began, "either way, Nick is being held against his will."