Process

Greg yawned as the printer spit out results. His coffee was calling to him, but he didn't dare get a fresh cup. Warrick and Grissom hovered over him as he studied the results.

"Saliva," Greg said.

Warrick held up the sheet. "A gag, maybe?"

Grissom nodded. "Whose, Greg?" As if on cue, the printer spit out another sheet of paper.

"DNA matches the epithelials on the other pieces," Greg answered incompletely. "And they both match . . ." He picked up a personnel file. "Nick."

Grissom spun on one heel and stormed out the door. Warrick didn't look to happy either, but glanced at Greg. They both sighed.

"We've alerted all our guys throughout the state, Gil," Brass said, trying to calm the man. "They're looking for the SUV, for Nick and for Amy Henler. It's just a matter of time."

"You don't know that they'll stay in Nevada," Grissom said quickly. "If she's smart at all, she'll leave the state as soon as possible."

Brass held up a hand to slow his counterpart down. "I've already told California Highway Patrol, as well as New Mexico, Utah and Arizona. Do you want me to call the Feds too?"

Gil glared at him. Who ever wanted the Feds involved?

"Just let me know what you find," Gil said. "Does her husband know where she's going?"

Brass just stared at him. Grissom sighed, and left as quickly as he'd come.

They got lucky. Correction. Amy got lucky. How no one saw them, Nick didn't understand. If it was always that easy to get to the CSIs' cars, or steal them, he was going to have to bring that up in the next staff meeting.

The SUV was more comfortable to drive. It was normal for Nick, and he almost felt as such, until he remembered the gun in Amy Henler's hands.

She hadn't relaxed since they left Nevada, and that was two hours ago. She kept looking in the sideview mirror and over her shoulder. Nick just wished she'd actually see something, someone coming to help him.

"Mrs. Henler," Nick said quietly, "we're around LA. Is there anywhere you want me to stop?"

She didn't answer, and Nick glanced away from the freeway. She stared at him. Her fists were tight, especially around that gun. Nick swallowed.

"How did they find us, Nick?" she asked.

"I don't know—"

"Exit here, now!" she suddenly yelled. Nick tried not to jerk the wheel, but he exited. "Turn right. Into that parking lot."

Nick obeyed. The parking lot was deserted, which was to be expected on the fringes of town at 4 in the morning. Amy yanked the keys from the ignition and glared at Nick. She raised the gun at him.

"How did they find us." The shyness was gone. She wasn't just asking anymore.

"Mrs. Henler," Nick started, "take it easy, ple—" He yelped. She struck him with the gun, hitting his jaw.

"Tell me, Nick!" She cocked the gun and pressed it to his head. Nick felt that prickle of water in his eyes. He blinked quickly.

"The credit card," he said. "They can trace credit cards if you use them." He didn't dare look at her, but it was silent for a full minute. He just tried to shut out the throbbing in his jaw.

"You knew that, didn't you?" she asked, her voice a whisper now. "You did it on purpose."

Nick didn't answer her. He didn't need to.

"Climb over the seat, Nick," Amy ordered, that control resurfacing. "In the back, now!"

Nick felt fear run through him. He'd ticked her off. He stumbled over the driver seat. Just as he turned around to face her from the backseat, he saw her hand and the gun come down on him again.

It turned black after that.

He vaguely remembered moving, or stumbling, out of the car. His head felt like it was going to blow up.

He could feel someone holding him up, helping him along. A blast of sunlight hit him in the eyes. Nick quickly shut his eyes and moved along blindly.

The sunlight subsided, and Nick saw he was inside.

Another motel room. Mrs. Henler led him to the bed, and Nick just dropped down on it.

He groaned. He rubbed his head, and felt a rough patch of skin, almost like a scab.

She was doing something to his hands, Nick could tell. He didn't know what—he wasn't trying to focus on anything.

It wasn't long before he let go and sleep overcame him.

Jason Henler seemed more nervous now than when he was a murder suspect. Who could blame him? His wife was out on a crime rampage.

Grissom stared at the man from across the interrogation room. He almost felt sorry for him. The man had loved Faye Green, and Amy killed her. Now his wife was into kidnapping, it seemed, and he was dealing with the fallout.

But so was Nick, and so close to danger that none of them could really imagine. Gil continually hoped that Amy wouldn't kill his CSI.

Catherine tapped on the glass, motioning for Gil to come out.

"Excuse me," he said. Catherine held up a folder as he met with her.

"Psych profile," she said. "From her therapist, who knew nothing about the murder."

Grissom took the file in hand and opened it. "Sum it up for me," he said.

"Basically," Catherine began, "Amy Henler has issues she's been trying to deal with, probably the murder, guilt and her husband. But she's never seemed outright psychotic."

Gil raised an eyebrow. "So . . ."

"The shrink thinks she can be reasoned with. She's not completely out of control, but lots of stress could trigger an irrational response."

"Great," Gil said, "she's like anyone else, but holding Nick hostage." Catherine shrugged.

"So where do you think they are?" she asked.

"California. It was the closest from the motel, and it's huge. She could easily hide there." Grissom sighed. "We may have to use the press on this."

Catherine's eyes grew wide. Grissom never used the press unless there was no other way. He just nodded, and went back into the interrogation room.

Nick felt something dab at his head. He moaned and flinched away. It stung, whatever it was.

"Nick," he heard someone call softly. Slowly he opened his eyes. There sat Amy Henler, leaning over him with a damp washcloth in hand. "Sorry. This may sting a bit." She moved towards him. Nick jerked back with his whole body.

He was stopped short. His hands were tied above him again, this time to the cheap headboard. His feet were just bound together. It frightened him. He pulled at the restraints, panicking.

"Nick, stop it!" Mrs. Henler had the gun aimed at him. She'd backed away, probably startled by his sudden movements. Nick lay still, but his mind raced.

How long have I been out? What happened? Just as soon as he thought that, he remembered the incident in the car. She'd been upset.

"Are you going to calm down?" she asked, taking a step towards him.

No, Nick thought, but he nodded just the same.

"Okay," she said. She put the gun down on a small table across the room, and sat by him on the bed. The washcloth in hand again, she leaned in to dab where she'd hit him.

Nick winced.

"Sorry," she said again. "I got some ice. I thought it might help." She dabbed at the side of his head once more, then moved away for the ice bucket. Nick watched as she grabbed a handful of ice and placed it inside the washcloth. She wrapped it up and pressed the compact to his head.

He couldn't stop himself from flinching, but the cold did seem to help his head.

"You can talk, you know," Amy said, a bit playfully. Nick raised an eyebrow at that. He cleared his throat.

"What do you want me to say?" He could think of a long string of four letter words, but he refrained.

She sighed and took away the ice. Nick almost objected, but let it go. "Fine. I'll ask questions. First, can the police trace the license plate of that car, even here?"

Down to business, Nick thought with a smirk. Amy got up and put the ice on the table. Her eyes flickered to the gun.

Nick frowned.

"Yes," he answered reluctantly. "If they trace the tags, they'll know it was stolen."

"So what do I do?" she asked next. She leaned her weight on the table, her hand just inches from the gun. Nick sighed.

"Change the tags. Park next to a similar car, and grab their plates," Nick said. "But it's not a guarantee."

Amy titled her head to one side. "Why not?"

He stared at the ceiling, refusing to look at her while he fed her information. "Because they'll be looking for you. It's only a matter of time."

That seemed to sober her up. She was quiet as she chewed on what Nick said.

"You know, I should probably dye my hair," Mrs. Henler said. "You too."

Nick's gaze shifted to her, boring into her. "You are not dying my hair." She smiled and shrugged.

"They'll be looking for you too, Nick," she said. "Why not?"

Nick measured his tone carefully and stared hard at her. "Because there's more for you to worry about than the color of my hair if I'm out in public."

Her eyes narrowed at him, but she didn't threaten him, for once. Suddenly her features lightened.

"You remind me of my husband," she said. Nick froze, automatically not liking where this was going.

"Mrs. Henler—"

"Why don't you call me Amy?" she asked. "It's not like I'm Mrs. Robinson." As soon as she said that, Nick gulped. Reading between the lines, he suddenly felt very vulnerable.

"Um, I'd like to use the bathroom, please," Nick said quickly. She just watched him for a moment before moving to untie him.

He took a shower, and let the hot water pelt his skin. It soothed him. As the water ran over him, he tried to convince himself that he could get out of this. He was stronger than she was, easily. He could surprise her, take the gun.

It's too risky. Besides, he wasn't used to this type of thing. Before yesterday, he hadn't ever faced the barrel of a gun. Not even his time on the force in Texas had put him through anything like this.

And being a CSI was supposed to be safer, he thought to himself with a sly grin. That was one of his arguing points with his parents. Not that it'd made a difference—they still took it personally when he moved.

Nick shook his head, sending a spray of water onto the walled shower stall. Could I really do it? He didn't want to get hurt—whoever did?—and certainly didn't want to die.

That's what really scared him.

Well, that and what Amy Henler might do. Something about her, beyond the threats, bothered him. She'd obviously been hurt by her husband, and she'd been suffering for five years already under her own guilt. How much more can she take before she cracks? Nick sighed and turned the shower off.

He just wanted to get away.