Disclaimer: I own nothing. Sue me. Oh wait - you can't, can you?
Notes: Well, after a long spell of writer's block, studying, and being away for holidays, I finally completed chapter 7. Here it is, folks. And don't forget to thank witch for her constant encouragement and help with getting over the writer's block.
Oh, and I will no longer be replying to your reviews...sorry. It turns out that ffdotnet has a rule against it. They say this isn;t a messageboard, so I have decided to stop it...though I do send a million hugs and kisses to all my loyal reviewers! I love you all!
And to those who are waiting for me to update the other fics I'm working on...you'll have to wait, I'm afraid. I have serious writer's block for those, and precious little time to write as well...serves me right for signing up for all those camps during the holidays, I suppose. And also, my computer went down to a virus attack, and I lost everything I had for those fics... bad, I know. I need to rewrite, and try to remember where I was going with each fic. So please, I apologize, and I need you to bear with me, people.
Now, on with the fic!
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Chapter 7
Prickling. Stinging. Pain.
That basically described the current condition of Nick's arm. He had been able to calm Jason down and helped him fall asleep- pinning the aforementioned arm underneath. After some nudging and pulling, Nick rescued his arm and flexed it to get the circulation moving again.
Dawn slowly but surely shifted into day and the sun began to shine brightly through the window. Nick lowered the blinds. After checking that Jason was peacefully sleeping, he left the room, slowly closing the door behind him. Jason was obviously in no shape to attend school. The nightmares were obviously getting worse. He hoped Child Services had some good "kid shrinks" on hand.
With that thought, Nick paused. Suddenly, he realized that he wasn't so keen on giving Jason up to Child Services anymore. The boy has become a huge part of his life in a matter of days, maybe even hours.
Nick headed back to the living room to resume reading the diary. He had just sat down on his comfy couch when the doorbell rang out.
"Oh hell, what now?" he muttered out loud.
Upon approaching the door, Nick took a deep breath, closed his eyes, opened the door, and began his memorized litany: "No, I don't need a new Bible, vacuum, or set of encyclopedias. I already subscribe to National Geographic, Newsweek, and the Las Vegas Sun. I'm not interested in joining any political parties and I donate regularly to several fundraisers. If you're still here, please come back at night when I start my shift. Thank you."
He was about to close the door when he heard Warrick's bellowing voice: "Well, good morning, Mr. Sunshine! Do you need a cup of Folger's aromatic coffee to remind you to be nice to people?"
"What 'n hell…" Nick uttered as he opened his eyes to the sight of Grissom, Warrick, Catherine, Brass, and Sara crowding the front stoop. Warrick pushed his way through the door, teasing Nick.
"Jeez, Nick, didn't your mother teach you any manners when you had guests? You gonna invite us in?"
"Yeah, my mother taught me manners- for invited guests. Seeing as y'all are my friends, you're welcome inside anytime for a beer, but could you at least tell me why y'all are here?" Nick's Texan accent grew thicker as fatigue began grabbing him.
Sara, always to the point, said, "We're here because you have evidence."
"Lee Nha's diary?" Nick guessed.
"Correct, cowboy. What's in it?" Catherine asked.
"Not too much, from what I've read so far. She's kept to herself and focuses on work and her kid. No friends, except for a few friendly hours spent with the neighbor. She never dated anyone, but did have some run-ins with her boss, Mr. Lanyon. Nothing too serious," Nick replied.
"What kind of run-ins?" Grissom questioned.
"For example, Mr. Lanyon gave her flowers, which she refused with the excuse that she was allergic to the pollen. He harassed her for a week until she threatened to quit. She was looking for a better accounting job- mostly in banks- somewhere where she could earn more money to support Jason. He was her life."
"I can relate to that," Catherine muttered quietly.
"It matches with what we have. Mr. Lanyon confessed to hitting on her, but not ordering a hit on her," said Brass.
"Hold up, I've been out of the loop. What all do you guys have?" asked Nick.
The sun continued to rise as the group proceeded to fill in Nick about the evidence they collected.
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(Earlier that day)
A dirty, red Chevy truck rolled into a deserted parking lot of an Outback. The restaurant was closed for repairs, but the construction crew had yet to arrive to begin work for the day, sweating and hammering under the relentless desert sun.
The driver, Mr. Lanyon, parked in a secluded corner and sat back to wait. This was supposed to be the last meeting between them, but she complicated matters by not doing things right. He was pissed because the cops already showed up. It wasn't supposed to go down like it did. Only Jason was supposed to die, Lee Nha ended up dead instead. And no one was supposed to find out until much later. The assassin screwed up and Lanyon refused to pay for mistakes.
Lanyon could hear the muffled noise of a crowded city beginning to wake up. He thought about why he ordered the assassin to kill the brat. Lee Nha rejected him- all because of that brat Jason. No one rejects Thomas Lanyon.
Lanyon's fist clenched tighter around the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white, while his face turned red. It lasted about ten minutes before he realized what he was doing, and released the wheel, his anger vented – for now.
The muffled noise crescendoed and rescinded again as the passenger door opened and closed again.
"You screwed up."
"Shut up. I'm the expert, not you."
"Expert? We had an agreement and part of it was that you would be quiet. No one was supposed to know until too late, but now the whole neighborhood heard you."
"Hey- that's your problem, not mine. Just fork over the dough and we'll never see each other."
"Hell no. You were never supposed to touch the woman! Only the kid was supposed to go knocking on the Pearly Gates, but you killed the woman instead! I'm not paying for your screw-ups."
"Whatever, man. Just give me the money! I need that cash!"
"Tough," sneered Lanyon. "You want the cash, then make sure that kid keeps his appointment with St Peter."
A loud curse answered him from the back seat, then the passenger disappeared as quickly as she came.
Lanyon started up his truck again and merged onto early morning traffic.
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Allie Redman paced the confines of her small, rather dingy apartment. The wallpaper was peeling off slowly, and the carpet felt like walking on mold.
Damn that man Lanyon. Allie forcibly stopped pacing and scowled heavily, twisting up her usually pretty face into a dark expression that would send a Rottweiler cowering.
She needed the money he'd promised her. She had gone after the kid, but the woman had seen her face, and so she'd had to die. It wasn't her fault that she'd forgotten to put on a silencer. It definitely wasn't her fault that the neighbors had woken up, and so she'd run before she'd been able to get the kid.
Hell, now how was she supposed to pay her rent?
Unconsciously, Allie started pacing again.
Even if she could go after the kid, she didn't know where he was. The police had taken him into their custody, and Allie wasn't sure she felt suicidal enough to go into the police station asking after him. Her face was too well known in police circles for her to do anything of the sort.
On the other hand, if she got arrested, she wouldn't have to worry about the rent, now would she?
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"I can't believe this!"
CRASH!
Greg Sanders jumped off his lab chair and let out a few unrepeatable curses, grabbing his foot with both hands and hopping around on the other foot like the Easter bunny gone wrong.
"Sanders, what have you been smoking?" Hodges yelled from his lab. "Cut down on the noise!"
Greg muttered something under his breath. From the gesture he made in the direction of the Trace lab, it was a safe assumption that he wasn't wishing Hodges the best of health. Picking up the beaker he had dropped on his foot, Greg limped over to the realm of his good friend Archie Johnson.
The audio/visual lab was in darkness, but the soft strains of Good Charlotte told Greg that Archie was in. The Asian lab tech was leaning back in his seat, chilling out to "I Just Wanna Live" and humming along.
Man, Greg really loved this guy. Except when he got to help out on cases and Greg wasn't invited.
"What's up, man?" Archie asked, spotting Greg before he could speak.
"I'm in trouble if I don't find Grissom fast," the DNA tech announced dramatically. "Where'd he go, Arch?"
"Don't call me that," Archie answered snappishly. "And I think Grissom and the others are having a pow-wow at Nick's. What's the problem that has you so riled up?"
Checking that no one was within hearing distance, Greg leaned in and whispered something into Archie's ear. The audio/visual technician listened, and slowly, a grin spread over his face.
"You'd better head over to Nick's, man," was all he said to Greg's almost-desperate expression. "Give Grissom my love."
Greg sighed. "And there I was hoping you'd help me."
Archie grinned. "With the amount of trouble you're currently in? I like my job, man."
So it was that Greg Sanders found himself standing outside Nick's front door, ringing the doorbell and wondering why it had only started raining after he'd gotten out of the car. Shivering a little, he was relieved when a rather grumpy Nick opened the door and invited him in.
Nick's living room was warm and dry, and the graveyard shift was lounged around the coffee table in the middle of the room, each with their own comfortable spot. Warrick and Catherine were sharing the sofa, and Sara's head was pillowed against Warrick's leg. Grissom occupied Nick's large brown recliner, and Nick himself returned to his favorite cushiony seat after telling Greg to make himself comfortable.
Greg didn't. He glanced nervously at where Brass was sipping coffee at the kitchen table across the room, and turned back to Grissom.
"Can I uh, talk to you?" he asked, trying not to panic in front of all the seasoned CSIs. "You know, in private?"
Grissom looked around at everyone, focused on Greg, then rose and said, "Nick, I hope you don't mind us using your bedroom."
"Sure," Nick shrugged. "Just don't touch anything," he warned Greg, as the tech shuffled after Grissom into the room.
The supervisor closed the door behind them and turned to Greg, crossing his arms lightly over his chest.
"What is it, Greg?" he asked, raising one eyebrow, his expression unreadable.
Greg swallowed.
"Well," he began, "Maybe you'd better sit down…"
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(throws out Grissom plushies as incentive for people to review...)
RK9.