Pain.
Nick didn't want to move even an inch. His entire body throbbed with pain. Brandt had made sure not to leave anything out. It felt like every bone in his body was broken.
He was back in his cell again, wherever he was. He wriggled a little, stifling a gasp of pain that the slight movement had wrought. He had to find a way out. Whatever Brandt wanted, he wasn't about to stop getting it from Nick until he killed him.
What did Brandt want? What was it Brandt had thought Nick had seen? And told? Told Grissom, maybe?
Whatever it was, it was important enough to Brandt for him to risk murder.
Or maybe he already had.
The trap door opened, and Brandt's hand reached down. Nick flinched and tried to squirm away.
Brandt seized Nick's shirt and pulled him out. Rather than throwing him on the ground, Brandt set him down in a chair. Nick felt Brandt's hands holding him in place.
"Could I . . . could I please have some water?" Nick asked, his voice raspy.
"Of course."
Nick's head snapped up in surprise. It wasn't Brandt who had answered.
It was Abby Jackson.
"M-Miss Jackson?" Nick stammered as Abby moved closer, a bottle of water in one hand. "What's going on? What do you want?"
"It's quite simple, Mr. Stokes," Abby replied, coming to a stop in front of him. "You have something we need. You tell us what we need to know, and we give you back to your friends."
"I-I don't know what you're talking about," Nick told her, his tone revealing panicked exasperation.
"Let me jog your memory," Abby said. She made no move to give Nick the water he had requested. "The other day, when you and your coworkers came to our house, you snooped around. What did you see?"
Nick shook his head, trying to remember. "I-I don't know. Bills? I can't-."
Brandt's large hand squeezed Nick's neck painfully, cutting the CSI off.
"Yes, you do!" he insisted. "What did you see?"
"Please," Nick pleaded shakily, feeling his eyes well up. "I really don't know what you want. Please, can I . . . can I just have a little water?"
Abby straightened. To Nick's utter dismay, she upended the bottle, sending every precious drop onto the floor. Tossing the bottle carelessly aside, she looked at her fiancée.
"Refresh his memory," she stated.
"No, please," Nick begged.
His pleas went unanswered.
News of Grissom's explosion had spread through the labs, the department, and the morgue like wildfire. Never had the building appeared so full of energy and activity.
Dayshift CSIs had arrived and had taken over the caseload, allowing the graveyard shift to focus wholly on Nick's disappearance. Police officers were canvassing the area and retracing Nick's last steps, hoping for some clues as to the young CSI's whereabouts.
Having gone over every inch of the lot, the CSIs had split up to continue their search. Sara was printing the pictures she had taken. Catherine had found some fibers and a substance she felt were promising, and Warrick was going over Nick's home. A CSI from days was looking through Nick's truck. Grissom was in the break room, trying to map out Nick's steps over the last few days.
Grissom was like a man possessed. Every bit of his energy was focused on the case at hand. If anyone approached him about any information not pertinent to Nick's whereabouts, he would chase them out. No one could remember ever seeing Grissom so enraged. It didn't take long before everyone studiously avoided the break room.
Nearly everybody.
"Hey." Catherine entered the break room, folder in hand, and sat across from Grissom.
"No time for small talk, Catherine," Grissom said curtly. "We're on a tight schedule. If you've got information, then share it."
"If you say so," Catherine replied. "First, take your head out of your ass and look around. We're all worried about Nicky. Hell, half of us are doing double OT working on this. Quit chewing asses. We're doing the best we can."
Grissom stared at her in surprise, then rubbed his eyes wearily. "You're right. I apologize."
"Why are you acting like this?" Catherine wanted to know. "You've never let cases get so personal."
Grissom sighed. "By my estimate, Nick was abducted not ten yards from the lab over nine hours ago. He's been at the mercy of God knows what, and only now are we doing anything about it."
"You can't feel responsible," Catherine told him. "We're doing all we can."
"And it's not enough!" The frustration was back. "I have gone over all of Nick's most recent cases. No loose ends, no cause for threats. The only thing we're basing our kidnap theory on is the fact that Nick isn't here!"
"I wouldn't say that." Catherine opened her folder. "The fibers I found were a match to the one Nick found at the dump site. That substance I found? Chloroform, with a little amylase, lipase, and glucose."
"Saliva?" Grissom asked. "Who's?"
Catherine handed him the folder. "Nick's."
Grissom looked at the results, then back up at Catherine. "At least we can conclude that Nick was taken against his will."
"And it narrows the scope of our focus," Catherine added. "Those fibers tell us that, whoever took Nick, he's somehow linked to your case."
"It's a place to start," Grissom replied.
Nick grunted as Brandt threw him against a shelf. The CSI was bent over, but before he could move, Brandt's hand closed around the back of Nick's neck.
"If you're not going to tell us what we want, then maybe your friends will," Abby stated from somewhere behind him. "On the shelf, you will find a piece of paper and a pencil. I am going to dictate to you. If you try and write anything extra, Ty will break your fingers one at a time."
As if in response, Brandt released Nick's neck and took the younger man's left hand. He pulled Nick's pinky away from his fist.
"Maybe a demonstration is in order," Brandt suggested.
"N-No," Nick replied. "I'll do it right." He picked up the pencil and awkwardly pulled the paper closer.
"We have Stokes," Abby dictated. "If you want to see him again, deliver all of your notes on the Jackson case at a time and place later to be determined."
Nick finished the letter and put the pencil down. He didn't want his captors to think he would try to give his coworkers a clue.
Without warning, Brandt gave his pinky a sharp wrench, snapping the bone. Nick cried out in agony and leaned forward, teardrops staining the letter. When some of the pain subsided, he turned his head and looked at Brandt through bleary eyes.
"Why?" he whimpered.
A feral grin lit Brandt's face, sending a shiver down Nick's spine. "Because I can."
Abby held out a manila envelope. Nick belatedly realized that she was wearing gloves. "Put the note in here and seal it."
One-handed, Nick did as he was told. Once the envelope was sealed, Abby took it out of the storage shed, leaving Nick alone with Brandt.
Brandt hoisted Nick to his feet by the scruff of his neck and dropped him back into the tiny room, then shut the trapdoor.
Nick let out a stifled sob as he curled around his injured hand. He didn't know how long he'd been missing, but he hoped that someone was looking for him. He wasn't sure how much more abuse he could take.
Once he regained control of his fear and pain, he realized that his hands had never been retied.
A rush of adrenaline numbed his pain, and he began to work on the tape around his ankles. If he could just get away . . .