8/7/05

GRAVE CONSEQUENCES

Chapter 9 Epilogue

or The Cisco Kid Rides Again

The sound of his pager going off, startled Gil Grissom out of the reverie he had fallen into, contemplating the inexplicable granules of kitty litter, found on the body of the female D.B. he was currently investigating. The woman was found strangled to death in her completely cat-free home, so where did the granules of clay come from? And what did they mean?

Glancing down at the small device, he saw that it was a text message from Jim Brass. Two 419s had been called in from a local convenience store, could Grissom send over a couple of CSIs? Gil sighed, it had been a fairly busy night. Sara and Warrick were out in the desert with Det. Vega investigating a body dump. Greg and Catherine were at the Bellagio checking out a possible suicide, with suspicious circs. There really wasn't anyone left in the building to send.

Frowning in thought, he swiveled his chair around to glance into the lab across the hall from his, where Nick was analyzing some foreign hairs also found on Kitty-Litter-Woman's body. It had been almost a month since the Texan had been cleared to return to the lab. Janine had cleared him to return to the field a week ago, but Grissom had discovered that, while Nick might have been ready to go back into the field, Gil was not yet ready to let him. So, he had continued to keep the younger man in the lab. To his surprise, Nick had not complained.

Watching the man work, Gil had to admit that Nick had returned from his stay at the crisis center a much calmer and more centered man. The trademark Nick Stokes Smile was back, although it was a slightly dimmer version than the previous one and it didn't appear quite as readily as it had before. But Gil supposed it was only natural that the trauma the other man had experienced would leave some permanent changes.

Perhaps it had been a by-product of his natural boyish charm, but there had always seemed to be a certain... naïveté about the younger man, that was now gone. In the past that naïveté had worried Grissom, leading him to believe that Nick might not have been emotionally ready to handle the stresses of the job. Now he found himself greatly mourning its loss.

Reaching his decision, he took a deep breath and stood up from the lighted evidence table to walk across the hall to the other lab. He made a point of making as much noise as he could manage as he entered so as not to startle the other man. Nick was still occasionally exhibiting the exaggerated startle response so common among those who have undergone a recent trauma. He looked up from the microscope as Gil entered.

"Hey, Boss, what's up?" Nick asked.

"I just got a page from Brass. He's got a couple of D.B.s at a local convenience store. He wants someone to check it out. Care to join me?"

Gil saw the dark eyes light up, although he thought he also detected a brief flash of fear. "Yeah, I'm up for it."

"Okay, grab your kit and meet me out front. We'll take my vehicle."

A half hour later found them pulling into the parking lot of the Kwik-E-Mart. The faint rosy light of dawn was just beginning to paint the eastern horizon as Gil turned the SUV's engine off. He turned to his companion, saying, "Are you ready for this?"

"Yeah, I'm good," Nick answered, his voice only slightly tighter than normal.

"Okay, let's do this."

Entering the store, they found Capt. Brass speaking to a painfully young-looking uniformed officer, who looked like he might faint at any moment. The detective looked up from his notebook as the two investigators stepped inside.

"Hey, Nicky, so they finally let you off the leash, huh?" he called out.

"Yeah," the other man responded with a good-natured scowl. "So, what've we got?" he asked, while pulling latex gloves over his hands.

"Apparently, a robbery gone bad. Officer Belton, here, was the first one on the scene. I'm getting his statement right now. He said he didn't touch either body, other than to determine that neither had a pulse."

"Has anyone from the Coroner's Office been here yet?" Gil asked.

"Not yet. Anyway, this is Jimmy Tran," Brass continued, gesturing to the body lying at the end of the check out counter. He was an Asian man, probably in his mid-twenties. He had been shot in the chest at fairly close range. A sawed-off shotgun lay on the floor beside him. "He was the overnight clerk. His father owns the store. He's on his way done here."

As the captain spoke, both Nick and Grissom wandered carefully around the front of the store, examining at the tile floor. Abruptly Nick crouched down and picked something up from the floor. "I got a shell casing," he announced. "From a 9mm."

Reaching into one of the many pockets of his black, nylon field vest, he removed a small paper envelope and dropped the casing inside. Producing a pen, he quickly jotted down the pertinent information about the casing and tucked the envelope and pen back into his pocket.

"You said there were two bodies, where's the other one?" Gil asked.

"That would be our unidentified perp. He's at the back of the store, near the back office," Brass said, gesturing toward the rear of the small store. "I'm guessing he thought it was a rear exit, but it isn't. This place apparently only has one entrance or exit and that's the front door."

"I'll go check it out," Nick said and started down the nearest aisle toward the back.

Grissom nodded absently and returned to the body of the clerk. He carefully photographed it and briefly looked it over for any obvious evidence, careful not to touch it until the medical examiner could do his thing and officially pronounce time of death. Turning his attention to the shotgun, Gil snapped a few photographs then picked it up. Snapping the breach open, he checked to see if it had been fired. It hadn't. It was still fully loaded. An uncomfortable thought crept into his mind.

"You did clear the store, didn't you?" he asked Brass, who was crouched down on the other side of the body.

The detective turned to the young uniform. "You cleared the scene when you first arrived, didn't you?" he asked.

The question seemed to bring the young officer out of a daze. "Huh? What?"

Grissom felt his heart plummet into the region of his stomach. "Nick!" he yelled.

Nick found the other body, lying face down, his head pointed toward the front of the store. He had been shot in the back. Taking up his own camera, Nick photographed the body. Zooming in to get a close-up of the perp's face, he saw that the man was even younger than the clerk, probably barely out of his teens. Damn, he thought sadly, two people dead and both of them hardly more than children.

Lowering the camera and gazing at the body thoughtfully, it occurred to the investigator that it was odd that the man was facing the front of the store, but had been shot in the back. Crouching down beside the body and setting the camera aside, he leaned in for a closer look. He didn't need to be a medical examiner to recognize that the man's wound was not made by a shotgun. So, if the clerk didn't shoot the perp, as he had originally assumed, then who did?

He got his answer seconds later as an arm suddenly wrapped around his upper chest and he felt the cold metal of a gun barrel shoved roughly up under the right side of his jaw. A low, slightly shaking voice spoke harshly in his left ear, "Get up slowly and don't do anything stupid."

Keeping his hands out at his sides, Nick did as he was told and rose slowly to his feet. The arm around his chest was removed and he felt a hand clawing at his right hip, removing his weapon from its holster. Seconds later, he heard Grissom call out his name.

"How many cops are up front?" the man with the gun asked.

"Two cops, one criminalist."

"Crimi-what?"

"Crime scene investigator, like me."

"Whatever. Is he armed?"

"Yes," Nick answered, although he honestly wasn't sure if Grissom had his gun or not. The man frequently didn't carry one.

"Okay, there's only one way out of this dump," the man said. "So, we're going out the front door, nice and easy. You do exactly as I tell you and I won't hurt you. Move."

The two men moved slowly toward the front of the store. Halfway down the aisle, they met Grissom walking toward them. Seeing the gun against Nick's jaw, the lead CSI held his hands out, to show they were empty and slowly backed down the aisle. Reading Grissom's body language, Brass drew his own weapon, but kept it lowered.

Stepping into the open space at the front of the store, still holding Nick in front of him like a shield, the gunman said, "Hey, watch it, Cop! I swear I'll kill him!" To emphasize his point, the man dug the gun a little deeper into the CSIs jaw.

"Take it easy. No one wants to get hurt here," Brass said soothingly. "But you don't honestly think I'm going to just let you waltz out of here with one of my guys, do you?"

"Yeah, I do, Old Man. 'Cause if you don't back off right now, I'm going to splatter this guy's brains all over this store!"

"Oh, well now, that was just mean," Brass said calmly, referring to the 'Old Man' comment.

Nick stood silently while the detective exchanged threats with the gunman, but he wasn't really listening any more. Strangely, he wasn't frightened, not even a little. He was pissed, really, really pissed. He was beginning to wonder if there was some large, neon sign over his head, which read 'Victim- please, take me hostage!'

After his two weeks at the crisis center, he was beginning to feel like his life was his own again. The nightmares hadn't completely stopped yet, but at least they were manageable now and didn't completely disrupt his life anymore. He no longer jumped at every shadow and could even go into Grissom's office with only mild discomfort. His life was, for the most part, back under his control. And now this...

He was beginning to feel that he was doomed to spend the rest of his life as the hapless Poncho, dimwit, screw-up,... hostage. But he was getting very tired of playing that part. Damn it, for once he wanted to be Cisco!

His rebellious thoughts must have shown on his face, as Grissom abruptly said, "Nick, let us handle this. Don't do anything rash."

"Yeah, Nick, don't do anything rash," the gunman repeated mockingly, again digging the gun in a little deeper for emphasis. He seemed satisfied that he'd made his point when Nick gave a slight grunt of pain.

Looking out the windows at the front of the store, the man saw the black Tahoe parked out front, blocking in his own get-away car. "Whose car is that?" he demanded.

"Mine," Gil answered.

"Good, give me the keys."

"Sure," the investigator said amiably, immediately fishing the keys out of his pocket and holding them out. "Of course, I do know my own license plate number and it'll take us no time at all to have every cop in the city on your tail. Are you really sure you want to do this?"

The gunman made a sound which was rather like a cross between a sigh and growl. Unfortunately he didn't have much of a choice. He would certainly stand out if he tried to take the police car. So, his only option was the Tahoe. Besides, he told himself, he still had his hostage. He snatched the keys from Grissom and gave Nick a slight shove, propelling him towards the parking lot. Despite his bold words to the contrary there was really nothing Brass could do to stop it and he stepped aside to allow the gunman and his hostage to pass. He followed them out into the parking lot, his gun still at the ready.

Moving to the driver's side of the Tahoe, the gunman made his first mistakes. The wise thing would have been to go to the passenger side and for him to force Nick to unlock the vehicle, but being young and overanxious, the man tried to do it himself. As he fumbled with the keys one-handed, he let his attention fall away from his hostage. Sensing this, Nick immediately took advantage of that lapse.

He threw all of his body weight against the man, pinning him against the Tahoe. At the same time he grabbed the man's wrist with his right hand and wrenched the gun away from his head. The two men struggled for a moment, before the perp simply released the gun, shoved Nick violently away from him and took off running. Before Brass could assimilate what had just happened and raise his own weapon, the CSI was tearing off after the would-be burglar, effectively spoiling any shot the detective might have had.

"Nick, let him go!" Grissom yelled, jogging up to join Brass.

"Ah, damn it, I am too old for this," Brass groaned. The two younger men had already disappeared down a side street, barely visible in the still faint early morning light. Without a word, Grissom started running toward the direction, in which the other two men had disappeared, with Brass directly behind him.

In the alley across from the convenience store, Nick was rapidly gaining on the perp. The man may have been younger than him, but the investigator was obviously in better shape, even despite his two-week hiatus from running. As he drew within arm's reach of the man, he put his skills as a high school running back into use and launched himself at the other man, wrapping his arms around the man's waist and dragging him to the ground.

The perp immediately rolled onto his back and threw a punch, which caught Nick squarely on the jaw. Of course, a blow of that nature generally hurts the person who threw it as much as it does the person who caught it. Only slightly stunned, Nick took advantage of the man's pain to deliver a blow of his own. When the man failed to retaliate, Nick delivered another one for good measure. And feeling his adrenaline surging in his veins, he was about throw a third punch, when a pair of strong arms grabbed him and dragged him off the other man.

"That's enough, Nick!" Brass yelled, pinning the younger man to the street. The CSI allowed his body to go limp, indicating his surrender to the detective.

Both men were panting heavily as Brass climbed slowly to his feet and held a hand out to help the younger man up. As he reached out to accept that hand, Nick saw that the knuckles of his right hand were raw and bloody. Grissom stood nearby, his gun trained on the suspect. After Nick's abduction, he had begun carrying a weapon regularly once again.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Brass demanded of the younger man. "You were unarmed! Did you forget that he still had your weapon?" To underscore his point, the detective bent down and retrieved the gun in question from the waistband of the suspect's pants. He held it out to Nick.

"Oh, yeah, I guess I did," the Texan said softly, eyes slightly wide.

"Unbelievable," Brass groaned, with a shake of his head. "It's a wonder my hair isn't pure white."

Back at the lab, Nick sat in Ecklie's office, a bag of ice resting on his swollen, bandaged hand, and listened while the Assistant Director ranted and lectured about improper conduct in the field and potential lawsuits. Ecklie informed him that he was suspended for the next three days and sent him to report to Grissom for any further disciplinary action the supervisor wished to impose.

Walking into Gil's office, Nick was too angry and in pain to be bothered by all the insects surrounding him. He found his boss sitting behind his desk, looking concerned. Catherine was perched on the edge of the desk, arms folded over her chest, giving him that same 'I'm so disappointed in you' look his mother had always given him when he'd messed up as a kid. Nick felt his stomach tighten as he slid into the chair in front of the desk.

For a few months after the incident with the babysitter, he'd gotten in a lot of fights at school. This felt just like all those times he'd been called into his father's study to 'discuss' one of his latest fights. He felt the same conflicting sense of injustice and shame. He tried very hard not to fidget under the steady gazes of his older colleagues.

Abruptly breaking into a smile, Catherine slid off the desk and moved closer to inspect his chin. "Ooh, that's going to be pretty tomorrow," she said with a pained smile, looking at the bruise already forming on the left side of his jaw. He had a smaller, matching bruise on the right side, from the barrel of the gun, as well. "So, what did Ecklie say?"

"I'm suspended for the next three days."

She nodded. "You're lucky. You could've been fired."

"I know," he said softly, his anger abruptly melting away. "So, Ecklie said you had some further punishment for me..."

Catherine returned to the desk and looked down at Gil, who said, "I don't know that I'd call it punishment... I want you to resume your counseling with Janine. In fact, she's waiting to talk to you as soon as we're done here."

Nick wasn't surprised. He had already anticipated that stipulation. "Okay, what else?"

"That's it. Go talk to Janine then go home, Nick, relax for a while. We'll see you in three days. I'll deal with Ecklie."

"Thanks, Gris."

Arriving back at his house, Nick flopped down on his couch, beer in hand; ready to spend the day with a persistent buzz, watching television. As daytime TV sucked, he flipped the station to ESPN, hoping to catch Sportscenter, or with luck, maybe even a women's tennis match. He certainly wouldn't object to killing a few hours watching Anna Kournakova running around in her tight, little short shorts.

He had only made it through half his beer, when his afternoon plans were interrupted by the doorbell buzzing. With a groan, he stood and went to the door. Gazing through the peephole, he saw Warrick Brown standing on his doorstep. Opening the door, he fixed the other man with a hard stare. He was really not in the mood for another lecture or even a friendly chat, for that matter.

Unfazed by the glare, Warrick asked, "Aren't you going to invite me in and offer me one of those?" He gestured to the bottle in Nick's hand.

With a sigh, Nick stood aside and waved the other man into the house. He noticed that Warrick appeared not to have come straight from work. He was wearing a pair of black track pants and a snug, gray t-shirt. While the new arrival made himself comfortable on the couch, Nick went to the kitchen to get another beer.

"Oh, yeah, it's even good beer," Warrick said appreciatively as the Texan handed him the ice cold Heineken. "Much better than that Bud Light swill that Sanders drinks."

"Sanders drinks Bud Light? Man, that's chick beer," Nick said with a grimace and a slight shudder. "It's like drinking water. That ain't right."

"Tell me about it... So, I heard about your Mike Tyson impersonation. Want to talk about it?"

"No, I've already been talked at by Brass, Ecklie and Janine. I am all talked out."

"Yeah, what did Janine say?"

"That I need to find a 'better outlet for my anger issues'."

"Sounds like a plan to me. In fact, let's do something about that. Go, put some comfy clothes on and let's get out of here."

"Why, where are we going?"

"Just get dressed and you'll see."

Nick had never particularly liked surprises. He was even less fond of them now and he found all this deliberate mystery irritating. But his curiosity was piqued, so he drained the last of his beer and headed for the bedroom to change into a pair of navy blue sweat pants and a white t-shirt. Returning to the living room, he sat down on the couch and pulled on his cross-trainers, while Warrick finished his beer.

"You ready?" The tall African-American asked.

"So, where are we going again, Warrick?"

The other man just smiled as he stood and headed for the door. "Nice try," he said. "I'll drive."

"Right."

Forty-five minutes later they pulled into the parking lot of The Fun Zone Family Entertainment Center. It was a large, garishly painted, cinder-block box of a building, with a miniature golf course on one side and a go-cart track on the other.

"Gee, Dad, what are we going to do here?" Nick asked, in a slightly disgusted tone. "Play video games all afternoon?"

Ignoring the other man's tone, Warrick asked, "Haven't you ever been here before? There are batting cages back behind the building."

"Batting cages?"

"Yeah, I thought smacking some balls out of the park might lighten up that attitude of yours."

Nick had to admit the idea of whacking something very hard with a baseball bat did sound rather appealing. He gave a slight shrug. "Okay, lead on."

"Greg was supposed to get here and reserve a cage for us," Warrick said, rummaging around in the back of his vehicle and producing a couple of beat up, aluminum bats.

"You invited Bud Light Boy?" Nick asked.

"Yeah, he wanted to come along. I figured maybe we could teach him a few things and then he wouldn't embarrass us again at the next intra-lab softball game."

"Good point."

They found Greg waiting for them at the assigned cage. The former lab tech was dressed in a pair of faded, well-worn jeans and t-shirt which read 'I think, therefore I'm dangerous.' After exchanging greetings with the younger man, Warrick handed one of the thick plastic batting helmets they were required to wear to Nick. He held both bats out so the Texan could choose his weapon. Hefting them both experimentally, he selected one, opened the chain link door and stepped into the batting cage.

Stepping up the 'plate', he signaled to the operator in the booth nearby that he was ready to have the pitching machine turned on. He struck out on his first two pitches, much to the howling delight of his audience.

"Strike two!" Warrick yelled. "Oh, one more, Bro, and I'm gonna have to sit you down!"

"So, is this how you played at A&M?" Greg asked. "No wonder you never made it to the pros."

"Shut up, Sanders!" Nick snapped. "I'll take that crap from Warrick, but not you! I mean, let's see you do better."

"Oh, no, no, I'm just here to provide moral support."

"Then do it!"

"Hey, when you give me something to support, I will."

Nick finally found his sweet spot on the third pitch, knocking it all the way back to the far fence.

"Woohoo!" Warrick whooped. "Now, that is a home run in any park!"

"And the crowd goes wild!" Greg cheered.

After connecting with all of his next several pitches, Nick's arms started to get tired. It had been years since he'd been in a batting cage and he had forgotten how grueling this kind of sustained hitting could be. Pleading exhaustion, he traded places with Warrick. He sat back on the narrow, wooden bench and enjoyed watching the other man slam balls back to the fence with apparent ease. Warrick had obviously been a power hitter back in his playing days. Nick's preferred position had always been short stop, so his was more of a mental game.

But after 15 minutes or so, even the bigger man's energy began to flag in the afternoon heat and he yelled for Greg to step into the cage. The younger man balked at first, obviously nervous about making a fool of himself in front of his older and more athletically-minded friends, but Warrick promised to help him with his technique and Greg finally agreed to try.

Nick sat and watched his friends, laughing at Greg's rather feeble attempts to hit the ball, occasionally throwing out words of advice of his own. For the moment, all of his troubles and traumas were forgotten, fading away in the bright, Nevada sunshine and the presence of good friends.

Yes, he could do this. He could, not only survive his ordeal, but could actually move past it and leave it behind him. And he knew he had caring friends and family who would help him along the way. As he had learned at the crisis center, his experiences would always be with him, and while they did help to shape his character, they did not define who he was. He was still the person he chose to be, not something someone else had made him. And Nick Stokes chose to be a survivor.

THE END

Author's note: Okay, everybody say 'Awww'. Wow, that got a little sappy at the end there, didn't it? Sorry, about that. I guess that's what I get for listening to sad music while writing ('The Village' Soundtrack. Yeah, I know, lame movie, but great music). But I was trying to show how Nick got from being totally traumatized, to that scene at the very end, where he was telling Kelly Gordon that she didn't have to take her experiences with her. When I saw that, I thought, wow, that was quite a mental leap. So, I just wanted to fill in that gap and show how Nick got to that point.

Anyway, I also wanted to say thank you to everyone for all the great reviews and for sticking with the story. I've actually never written anything this long before. Well, at least nothing I wasn't planning on trying to get published. Okay, on to the next story!