Glad everyone got chills from the last chapter - - try this one on for size. Oh, and happy belated birthday to Janissa11! Enjoy the Nick. The very dark Nick.

- -

Chapter Thirty-two: Killing Cigarettes (NICK)

- -

He surprised himself by thinking of Kristy Hopkins.

She was the first thought he had when he saw Ecklie's face through the one-way glass. He had expected to think about Greg, because he had been appearing again and again in Nick's head for the past few hours, like a particularly catchy tune, but he thought of Kristy before he thought of Greg. Kristy, with her long dark hair tumbling over her bare shoulders when she slipped out of that flimsy shirt, and her upturned face golden from the ceiling light, her soft lips curved into a delicious smile. It had been a while since he had thought of her so consciously, and so vividly, and he was first stricken not with anger or sorrow at her death, but with actual arousal. His mouth was suddenly dry, and the slick soles of his shoes skidded over the tiles as he lost his balance. He nearly fell against Grissom, who held him up, apparently (and thankfully) believing that Nick's tumble was caused by pain. Nick could feel his face heating quickly with shame, canceling out the quick flow of memories, and Grissom held him steady.

"Are you going to be able to handle this?"

"Sure," Nick said.

He wiped a streak of sweat off his cheek and stared at Grissom's shoulder instead of at Grissom himself. Kristy Hopkins. That was the last long conversation he had had with Ecklie - - when the guy was accusing him of killing her. He'd thought that he'd hated Ecklie, then, he'd even said it to Catherine, his voice agitated so much that he could even hear it - - and he wasn't usually good at picking up subtleties in his own voice. But that wasn't right at all - - he hadn't really hated Ecklie, not then. That had been a combination of fear and grief. Hate was what replaced his desire for Kristy when he looked at Ecklie . . . this was the guy responsible for Greg's death. This was the guy who had been the reason for the missing evidence.

He looked at Ecklie and wished that Ecklie had hung himself, too.

Grissom kept holding his shoulders, a tight clench that was more hurtful than comforting. Grissom said his name in a harsh chant until Nick looked up at him. Grissom said, again, "Are you sure that you can handle this?"

"Definitely, man, I want this." He rubbed his hands against his pants. "I was just - - it just happened, that's all." He didn't want to explain to Grissom about Kristy Hopkins. He had been close to falling in love with her - - he had liked her, and been attracted to her - - and something might have grown between the two of them if it hadn't been for her death. That the memories were still strong enough to wind him up after all the years meant something more than he could really explain.

"Okay," Grissom said, and finally took his hands of Nick's shoulders. They felt bruised, and he rolled them in little circles. "But if you start losing it in there, I want you to just walk out. You don't have to impress Conrad Ecklie."

If he stayed, it would be to impress Grissom, not Ecklie, but he wasn't going to even try and pursue that angle. Grissom could deny whatever he wanted, but he couldn't do it convincingly. Nick knew the truth in a kind of drumbeat through his mind - - expendable, expendable - - and guilty, guilty. He was so sick of trying to make himself look perfect for Grissom. If he stayed in that room, losing it or not, it wouldn't be for either of them: it would be for him. He deserved this.

He'd asked Sara to handle Claberson so he could talk to Ecklie, and he wouldn't give that up, wouldn't walk out in the middle of the interrogation just because of the constant reminders of Kristy and Greg, tied so permanently to Ecklie.

"I don't care about that," he said honestly, watching Ecklie through the glass. "Okay, let's go in there."

Nick didn't hold the door open that time, he let Grissom push out ahead of him and he followed right on his boss's heels, his toes almost snapping against the backs of Grissom's shoes. He wasn't going to wait for whatever else was in the room to leave. He didn't know what he had been waiting for, earlier - - it was like he had expected Greg to just come strolling out of the room right behind him with a little grin and some freaky magenta shirt, eyebrows all raised, saying something wry about Nick's sense of courtesy extending to opening doors but not to leaving Greg's deli sandwiches from the fridge untouched.

Grissom had stared at him. He wasn't going to be stared at right now. Like he told Grissom - - get in, get it over with. Like ripping off a Band-aid of grief.

Ecklie was thin-faced, and his mouth puckered. He looked at Grissom as if Nick didn't even exist, and that was the first thing annoyed him, almost making him want to reach over the table and turn Ecklie's head until Ecklie just looked at him. He repressed the urge and stuck his hands in his pockets, curling them into fists. His fingers closed around quarters and an old pack of cigarettes that had softened until it felt mushy. He worked one out with a fingertip and thought about how good the nicotine would feel. It seemed to block out his anger, just a little.

He wasn't going to be a hero and he wasn't going to be a martyr. He was going to do it right this time, even if doing it right now couldn't fix what had already gone so immeasurably wrong.

Grissom said, "You hired a signature killer to ruin my life."

Nick thought that sounded pretty funny, just said straight out like that. He rubbed his fingers together and shredded paper and tobacco. He could feel it catching under his thumbnail.

"He calls himself an artist, actually," Ecklie said. It was one hell of a smart-ass remark to be making in an interrogation room right across from two men he'd really pissed off, but his strangely broken tone killed any innate sourness the words otherwise would have had. "And he's not just a killer. He's also a rapist, a thief, and a con man."

"He conned you, according to what Hodges told us," Nick said. He wanted to put his elbows on the table, but then he would have to take his hands out of his pockets, so he just leaned back further in the seat, letting it cushion around him. That cigarette between his fingers was toast. "You thought you were in control for a while, until you started to figure out who was really running the show. And when you finally realized that Flowers was the con and you were the mark, you didn't tell the police. You definitely didn't tell us. You told Hodges to steal the evidence."

"It would have ruined me if I had told anyone else," Ecklie said.

He bent the cigarette in his fingers, unable to tear it in half with only one hand. Kristy had smoked. After. Just one cigarette. He'd had one with her, and it had tasted pretty good, especially considering how rarely he had one anymore. Ecklie had tried to get him arrested for killing Kristy. The cigarette didn't move when he shifted his fingers.

"Better your life ruined than Greg's life wiped out," Nick said, "but maybe you didn't think about the consequences first."

He hadn't. He hadn't. Martyrs and heroes, that was how he had divided the universe up there on the roof - - there were people like him and there were people like Greg, and now it was too late to explain that there were more types than he'd admitted to, and even Nick wasn't really a person like Nick. Besides, if there were only martyrs and heroes, then where did that leave him?

He hadn't died for a cause, and he hadn't saved anyone.

No, he hadn't considered the consequences, either, but that didn't mean he had to admit that to Ecklie, or sympathize with Ecklie. They weren't the same person, and they didn't have the same problems.

"In retrospect, I wish that I had acted differently." Ecklie said that as if it were some great revelation, something untouchable and definitely worthy enough for him to be forgiven, and this cigarette was absolutely not breaking in Nick's hand, and he needed it to. He worried at it, but he didn't want to shred this one, he wanted to snap it in two. No progress.

Nick wondered if he should offer Grissom a cigarette. Grissom's hands were tightening and uncurling on his thighs, flattening hard against the fabric. Grissom didn't have anything to kill, and he looked as if he might not have a problem settling for Ecklie.

"In retrospect," Grissom said, his voice so dangerously quiet that Nick actually moved his chair another inch away, "I wish that you hadn't hired Matthew Flowers in the first place."

"I didn't," Ecklie said quickly.

"You didn't what?" He hoped no one saw any satisfaction in his face as he finally tore that cigarette apart. It burst, and he dropped it after a second of holding the remains. He reached for another one and toyed it out of the package one centimeter at a time.

"Hire him. I never found him, and I never paid him."

"The lack of payment I can almost understand," Grissom said, and Nick was relieved to hear that his voice sounded slightly more modulated. "But what do you mean by saying that you never found him? Explain it, and very, very carefully, please, Conrad."

Ecklie didn't take to the hint of threat well. His mouth twisted from a straight line into a knot, but he talked anyway. Slowly, but with growing fluency, he told them an interesting story. It took him longer to explain than it took for Nick to kill four more cigarettes in his jacket pocket. His fingers were getting slippery with sweat, and they slid over the paper as he twisted and tugged them apart, occasionally using the rougher edge of his nail to rip it down the side.

The breakdown was simple. Ecklie resented Grissom. He started making plans, imagining how nicely it would go if he could just get Grissom fired. The plans stayed in his head, for the most part, but he made connections without letting himself really know that that was what he was doing. He talked to people, and after a while, people started talking back. He hadn't really focused on Flowers at first, but after a while, he had listened with growing absorption to the stories of the white rose killer. He hadn't expected Flowers to show up, but Flowers had.

"And he never took any money from you," Grissom said, still sounding incredulous.

"I offered to pay him," Ecklie said. "I offered because - - "

"Because the one paying Flowers would be the one controlling Flowers," Nick said. He pressed on the cigarette from both ends. "It's the same thing as with the evidence. You didn't just want to be along for the ride, you wanted the power. If you paid him, you could get him to do whatever you want, and make him not do whatever you didn't want. You had Hodges steal the evidence and I bet you acted so surprised. What happened, right? You wanted him to get frustrated and take off, but he moved right along with you - - and he killed Greg."

"No one was supposed to die," Ecklie said.

"No one was supposed to die in your plan," Grissom agreed, "but you weren't too slow in realizing that it wasn't your plan anymore. You weren't the victim, Conrad. You could have stopped this, and you didn't. That makes you guilty. And you aren't even telling us the whole truth at all."

"Look, I told you everything I know about."

Nick knew what Grissom was thinking of. He found the last cigarette and went to work, imagining that he was killing more than just a leftover pack from his smoking days. He was killing Ecklie, killing Flowers, killing Claberson. Hodges. Lizzie. Whoever.

"You said that you asked around about Flowers and Flowers came," Nick said. "No money, no incentive, and in the terms of the world, you're a nobody. Now why would he come here for you? How would he have even heard about you? It's ridiculous."

He took his time on this cigarette. He was going to flay off the paper. Peel it like an apple, and then crush the filter between two fingers. When he was done with it, he could tear apart the box slowly enough to hear the wrapping squeak under his hand. He wiggled a nail under a crease and began to tug. Had to take it slow. Slowly as possible. Because if he finished killing the cigarettes and Ecklie was still right across from him, well, he didn't really know what he'd be left with.

"Maybe he was already in Vegas," Ecklie said. It fell flat in the air, and ended up sounding about as ridiculous as Ecklie's story in the first place, but Nick could tell that at least Ecklie had believed the first part. Now, he was starting to see the holes.

A fringe of tobacco fell against his skin.

"Or maybe he conned you more than you thought," Grissom said. He had stopped making his hands into fists, and he was now squeezing his knees so hard that Nick absently pictured what it would be like if Grissom just snapped his bones. The cracking noise. Another few sprinkles, and he pulled the paper a tiny bit further, needing to take it slow, but also needing more.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Ecklie said stiffly.

"He's saying that maybe there was someone who was paying Flowers. And you wonder why Grissom gets all the respect around here."

Grissom gave him a very short look, a very measuring look. Nick dropped his eyes down to the table and tried to concentrate all his energy on the cigarette. It was almost Zen-like, moving it in little circles, rolling it, his hand barely twitching so as not to be obvious. He had come to close there. He didn't want Grissom to ask him to step out of the room, mostly because he didn't want to tell Grissom that he was staying no matter what.

"He told me that I was why he came."

"And you decided that since he was so trustworthy, you just had to believe him."

Nick guessed that Grissom's voice was dry right then, but it wasn't his usual sarcastic dryness, even though the sentence had been rich with sarcasm. It was more the kind of dry that started forest fires with too much heat. He hoped Ecklie would be smart enough to realize the difference.

"I didn't have a choice," Ecklie said.

It was hard to avoid the look of mixed disgust and anger on Grissom's face as Grissom stood so quickly that his chair rocked back and the legs clanged against the floor as it fell over. "You had a choice, Conrad. You had a choice from the very beginning. But we didn't, and now two people have lost all their choices because you didn't make the right one. And no matter what Lizzie Zimmer did or did not do, Greg didn't have any choice at all."

Grissom left first, and he just left Nick there, sitting with an empty pack of cigarettes in his pocket, looking at the door with Ecklie. He stood, and picked up Grissom's chair before he left, setting it down so carefully that he almost felt the floor was slanted, and he had to balance the chair so that it didn't fall. Ecklie didn't move, just watched, almost in interest, as if to see whether or not Nick would fling the chair against the wall once he was done dusting it off.

"You wanted to ruin his life," Nick said. His hands were out of his pockets now, and he felt unsteady, unbalanced. "Guess your plan worked out really well."

It felt sour, like a punch-line, and he was glad to close the door on Ecklie. Grissom was waiting for him in the hall, almost shaking, running a hand over his face, trembling mouth and bloodshot eyes all covered by his large, tanned hand.

"I warned you about losing control," Grissom said, and his voice was muffled against his skin, "but I couldn't keep mine, either. You did a better job." When he took his hand down, Nick thought that must be the weariest smile he had ever seen. "Any secrets, Nicky?"

Nick put his hand in his right pocket and drew it out in a closed fist, and opened it in front of Grissom's face. The loose tobacco fell out when he parted his fingers, and the swirl of the fans carried the rest off his skin. A fleck of it landed on Grissom's shirt, but Grissom didn't brush it off, just let it sit there, staring at the pieces on the ground, all shredded paper and tobacco, and finally nodded.

"It's good that we left," Nick said, and even to him, his voice sounded too tired, too old, too dead. "I was already on the last one."