a/n: Thanks for the reviews! Here's the next chapter; these chapters aren't as long as I normally write them, but hey, at least it's quick.

The Captive

His chest ached, but Nick tried to ignore it. He wasn't immune to pain, but he tried to think that he could simply pull a mind-over-matter thing with this. Besides, he'd played sports and gotten injured.

Yeah, but you were never kidnapped and handcuffed after those injuries.

He gave himself a little slack.

His face itched, and Nick awkwardly used both his hands to scratch whatever was bothering him. He looked around the small room for the millionth time. It was simple a spare room—maybe meant more for a study or storage than anything else. The carpet wasn't glued down. It was just a fragment, lain down over the house's foundation. The walls weren't painted. They were just chalky white from the spackle and sheetrock. There was a closet, with one lone bar from which items could be hung. But other than that and a sole light bulb that barely shed any light, the room was bare. And the door was securely locked.

Nick paced it, his eyes glaring at the cheap flooring. It took all of two seconds to get around the room. He estimated it was a 7 ft by 8 ft room, maybe more, but not much. There were two air vents, both 4in by 10 inches. There were no other access points, not even a window.

That has to be against building codes, Nick thought. But that was probably the least of Nigel's worries.

Crane was unpredictable. One minute, he worried about Nick's health. The next, he locked him up and hit him where he already was injured. Nick shook his head, grimacing as well at the pain the motion caused.

He's too volatile. I can't reason with him logically, and he saw through my kiss-up attempt.

Nick stopped pacing. He allowed himself to sit for awhile.

I just have to escape.

He knew there were dangers. If he failed, who knows how Crane would react? If he succeeded, would he be able to find help and get back home? I don't even know where I am.

Wait. I have to still be close to Vegas. It was evening when he and Warrick went to Crane's house. And it was 9-ish at night when he woke up. Nick glanced at his watch. It was after midnight now. We couldn't have gotten far.

But there are miles of desert out there too. Nick closed his eyes and lay back on the cheap carpet. Rest. You won't get far if you don't.

--------

"The blood's Nick's," Greg said solemnly. There was no guessing game or kidding around. He gave her the results straight. Catherine bit her lip as she looked over the printout Greg handed to her.

"The tire tracks match the standard tires for Ford F250s," Greg continued. "And the prints belong to Crane, and one other person." He handed Catherine another sheet.

Catherine took it eagerly. "Who?"

"Chad Johnson," Greg said. "He works at Luna Cable."

Catherine sighed. "Well, it's at least something." She left the lab and rejoined Sara in the break room. Sara was pouring over any bills or paperwork involving Nigel Crane. Luna Cable had quickly provided anything they needed—already the press had caught wind of a missing CSI and a suspected killer in the form of a cable man. Luna was trying to head off a bad PR campaign.

The phone rang, transferred from the front reception. Catherine shot Sara a look.

"It's your turn," she said. Sara relented and picked up the phone.

"Sidle." She sighed. "No more calls from the press. No, don't tell them anything." She listened for a second. "If someone has a tip, they can call Brass's office. They have a tip line there. Yeah." Sara hung up.

"Press again?" Catherine asked. Sara nodded.

"They must have heard about Nick over their scanners," she said. "I wish that was illegal." She turned back to her stack of papers.

"Has his family heard?" Catherine asked. Sara shook her head.

"I haven't called," Sara said. "I was hoping Grissom would do it." As if on cue, Grissom walked by the break room, bypassing it and heading straight to his office. Both women watched him as he shut the door a little more forcefully than necessary.

"I don't think he should call them," Catherine said. "He's never been a people-person." She took a deep breath, and stood up. "I'll call them. While I do that, can you call this guy?" She passed Sara the employment dossier of Chad Johnson.

"Co-worker?" Sara asked. Catherine nodded. "I'll have him come in." Both of them suddenly looked at the clock. It was 3 a.m. now. But when it really mattered, especially with a live person—their friend, nonetheless—proper hours and etiquette were damned.

------

The light was flickering now. That one light bulb was cheaper than the carpet. Nick scowled at it. He really didn't want to deal with the light going out.

But it kept flickering. It'd been doing that for hours now, and it's what woke him up. Nick clutched his ribs as he moved and pushed himself off the floor with his good hand. The flickering was messing with his head now. It pounded with a constant headache. Nick grimaced as he raised his arms to the light bulb. He flinched at the heated glass, but quickly unscrewed the bulb.

He bounced it in his hands, letting the bulb cool. The room was darker than night, even though Nick's watch had showed it was morning now.

Crane may come soon. Nick grimaced at the thought. But you can't escape if the door's not unlocked.

How am I going to get by him? He kept juggling the light bulb.

And then the bulb in his head came on.

Crane shuffled outside Nick's door an hour later. Nick watched the door open from the wall by it.

"Nick?" Crane called out. Nick didn't see much of anything, but he used the voice to guide him.

He lunged at the source, ramming into Nigel's body. Nick quickly used his bound hands together and smashed the light bulb in Crane's face. He wasn't sure where it connected, but Crane screamed.

For a brief moment, Nick wondered if Crane had his gun on him, but he pushed that aside.

Leave, quickly! His body obeyed, albeit painfully. Nick took the stairs, past the front door that was more than adequately locked. He ran to the kitchen, and turned circles, but couldn't find another door.

Screw it—just jump out a window! He yanked down a curtain, and froze.

The window was covered in aluminum foil. Like Jane Galloway's apartment.

Move, Nick! It's not indestructible! Nick clawed at the foil and the window's locks. His fingers fumbled, but unlocked the window. However, he couldn't raise it open. He spotted the nearest chair, and with adrenaline masking his pain, swung the chair into the window.

It shattered, spraying glass outside and around the sill. Nick dropped the chair and started crawling through.

"Nick!!"

Run. Run. Run. Run.

The command kept repeating in his head, but Nick hadn't found his feet yet. He finally scrambled through the window and to his feet, but little shards of glass cut into his palms.

He was on a deck of sorts. The morning light was bright, especially since it reflected off water and nearly blinded him.

Lake?

He shook his head and quickly ran down the deck stairs. He didn't know which way to go. Everything looked the same—tall trees, dusty rocks and cliffs, and then water.

That has to be Lake Mead. He started running towards it. There might be people out.

Nick darted through trees, not paying any heed to the twigs and branches that cut at him as he rushed by. He could hear the water ahead of him. It wasn't close, but it wasn't too far away.

If I can just make it there, or to a road . . .

He'd take whatever came first.

Nick's boot caught on a rock, and he pitched forward. He stopped his fall by catching himself on a tree with his bloodied hands. His chest heaved from the rush, the pain, and the fear. He ventured a glance back the way he'd come.

It was still.

Nick swallowed, a dry gulp that revealed more than his need for a drink. He turned back to the lake, and resumed his uneven pace.

The morning sun started to heat him, but Nick couldn't very well take off his jacket. That's not important now. He ran a bit further, then stopped to relieve himself.

He knew he was pretty far away from the house, but that didn't console him. Something told him to get further and further away. Nick almost wished he knew where Nigel Crane was. He was running blindly, not knowing which way was safe.

Another rock tripped Nick up, and this time he hit the ground. Nick groaned out loud, and pushed himself back up. His right wrist screamed in protest, but he ignored it when he saw the ground.

It was pavement.

Nick looked up around him. He was in a parking lot by the lake. No one was around yet, but he'd made it.

He sighed in relief.

And then tires squealed behind him, and Nick whirled around just in time to see a dark blue F250. It stopped just feet away from him. Nick was about to wave his bloody and bound hands for help when he saw the driver.

Oh crap. Nick started to back away, but Nigel just floored the truck at him. Then the truck screeched to a halt, this time inches away.

"Don't move, Nick!" he heard from inside the truck. Nick felt his stomach drop, and he swallowed again.

There's still a chance.

Crane got out of the truck, the gun leveled at Nick's head. Nick noticed little paths of blood running down Crane's face. The light bulb. Nick couldn't help but smirk at that.

"Turn around, and face the lake," Crane said.

Nick slowly complied, and as he did, his spirits fell fast into a dark void as despair flooded him. Suddenly, out on the water, he saw a boat. It wasn't large, but trailing from it was a joyful morning skier.

"Help!!!" he yelled as loud as he could. His lungs burned with his ribs, but Nick didn't care.

Especially after Nigel hit him in the back of the head, and everything faded away with his consciousness.