Afterlife

By EB

©2004

Chapter Three

On the one-month anniversary of Nick's death, he forced himself to begin going through the closets, both hall and bedroom. Nick's sister had been correct: Nick was – had been – a hoarder in some ways, and had held onto things Gil wondered at now. Clothes that didn't fit, sized for a man not quite as muscular as Nick had gotten; shoes too beat-up to be serviceable; hats and jackets and one moth-eaten wool scarf that appeared both ancient and hand-knitted. Who'd made it for him? One of his many sisters? Who could say now?

He'd planned ahead. No work today, even considering that he'd been a rarity there for the past few weeks. More days off than on, and he didn't much care what it meant. Work was difficult, and not only because Nick's absence was still a gaping wound, not even scabbed-over yet. It went deeper than that. Perhaps the evening of Nick's death, the associations with the morgue, and Robbins and Brass, he wasn't sure. But even that didn't quite cover it.

He didn't care about work now. Work was work -- it would be there when he returned, if he returned. There were others, capable, meticulous others, who could fill in in his absence. The truth was that he was in no way irreplaceable. None of them were. As impossible as it sometimes seemed, things could and did go on. And he no longer wanted to be privy to that, to know that things were, in fact, proceeding. He preferred the stasis of this house, the quiet, the solitude. Here, what was left of Nick could stay, if Gil wished it. He could keep Nick's things, preserve those remnants of not only Nick's life but often of his own, as well, and there was no one to tell him it was foolish, or a form of denial. Just himself.

He considered a worn tee shirt displaying Nick's fraternity letters, and wondered if he'd ever go back to work full-time. It might be a good point in his life to do what he'd sometimes toyed with doing. Becoming a consultant, working his own hours. Thanks to Nick and his father, he had more than enough capital to support himself. He could probably live frugally on the interest alone. He didn't have to work. He could pick and choose, a lot or a little, here or elsewhere. In fact nothing tied him to Vegas any longer. He could return to California, or go northwest, or northeast. Didn't much matter now, did it?

He decided not to decide yet, and folded the tee shirt tenderly, laying it on top of a pile of its fellows.

By shortly after noon he'd cleared out the bedroom closet and made good inroads on the hallway. There were six boxes of Nick's clothes, divided by wear rather than type. Two boxes that weren't even quality enough to give away; those he sealed and put aside for a later trip to his storage space. The other four he could take to the DAV, but he'd hold off long enough to see what else accumulated.

Warrick came by at two, the kind of social call Gil had soon grown to look forward to in the weeks since his return from Dallas. "You started without me?" Warrick asked, and crossed his arms. "Man, I told you I'd help."

"I'm counting on it." Gil wiped his hands on his jeans and gestured to the desk. "Jamie went through Nick's papers while she was here. Now it all needs packing up."

"Deal."

It didn't feel as odd this time, watching someone else start opening the drawers in Nick's desk. Just a chore that needed taking care of.

"You want a sandwich? Beer?"

Warrick shook his head and stacked papers on top of the desk. "Already ate. So did Nick really like paper clips, or what?"

Gil smiled, and went to make a sandwich for himself.

Catherine arrived an hour later, with two huge pizzas, and that was so unexpected and welcome that Gil didn't even mind the stalling of their progress. They ate outside, drinking the last of Gil's cold beer, and he talked her into taking the leftovers with her for the staff. "This much?" She snorted. "Greg'll eat this by himself."

"That's all right," Gil said mildly.

Warrick belched ringingly and unapologetically, and stood up. "Better get back to it."

After he went inside, Catherine glanced over at Gil. "You should call Jim," she told him gently.

He met her gaze only briefly, and went back to studying the paper on his beer bottle. "I know."

"He's hurting. He -- hasn't gotten over it, not yet." She sighed. "Not that anyone has," she added softly. "But Jim, you know, he loved Nick, too, in his own way. Thought the world of him."

"Yes, he did." Gil drank a tiny sip of beer. "I haven't been ready, I don't think."

"He thinks you blame him."

Maybe I do, Gil thought, and then shook his head. No. Try as he might, he'd never been able to lay this at Jim Brass's feet. It had been fast and ugly and unstoppable, even if Jim had been two feet away instead of two tenths of a mile. The shotgun blast that had taken Nick's life might have been one of two, had Jim been there. Gil might be mourning more than one person now. No. None of it was anyone's fault but the cranked-up teenager's who'd pulled the trigger. And even he was so unquestionably under the influence, it became at best an academic point. None of the finger-pointing would bring Nick back to life.

"I'll go see him. I will."

"Thanks."

"How's Lindsey?"

"She's fine. Busy with soccer."

The small talk felt good. He felt good. Relaxed, kicking back on the patio, belly full, beer tart and cold on his tongue. Maybe it was all right to feel good again. Wouldn't last. But he was grateful for the moment.

All too soon it was over. Catherine left with promises of returning in a few days, and a plea to Gil to call her if he needed anything. Gil shut the door behind her and went to check on Warrick's progress.

"Tell you, this is a nice desk." Warrick was seated on the floor, lap filled with various things he was sorting through.

Gil glanced over and nodded. "He already had that when he moved in. I'm not sure where he got it. You want it?"

Warrick paused, staring at him. "Do I want it?"

"Sure. I've already got my desk. As far as I know that desk has no sentimental value for his family, or his brother or sister would have said something to me when I asked." He shrugged. "I'm happy if you can find some use for it."

Warrick was silent for a moment, and then nodded awkwardly. "Yeah, I mean. I could use it. You bet."

"Then it's yours."

"If you change your mind –"

"I don't think I will."

"But I mean, you know. If you want it back sometime. Just say."

Gil smiled faintly. "All right."

"Thanks, man."

"Any time."

It was some time later, when Warrick was wiggling the top left drawer, that Nick's desk presented another minor mystery.

"Stuck," Warrick said, on his knees, peering beneath the drawer. "Got something jammed up in there."

Gil walked over. "If I hold up the drawer, can you reach it?"

"Not unless I got flat fingers."

"I'll get a coat hanger."

Using the bent hanger, with Gil holding up the drawer as high as it would go inside the runners, Warrick finally chivvied out the object, which turned out to be a wad of mangled duct tape wrapped around a key.

"What kind of key?" Gil asked, frowning and hunkering down next to Warrick.

"Not sure. Looks like a locker key, maybe." Warrick handed it over. "Had it taped to the bottom of the drawer?"

Gil turned the key over in his fingers. "Locker, or safety-deposit box." He met Warrick's questioning eyes. "I have no idea."

Going to the lab felt odd, in spite of the fact he still worked a couple of nights a week. Perhaps because this visit was unofficial, and he was only looking for one person.

He found him outside the DNA lab, in conversation with Greg. Both men glanced at him with similar surprised expressions.

"Hi, Jim," Gil said mildly. "Got a minute?"

Brass met his eyes and nodded. "Sure," was his slow reply. "Gimme just a sec."

"I'll be in my office."

Down the hallway, he stood in his own doorway for a moment, looking around. Would he stay here? The prospect of emptying this crowded room of all his things was daunting. And yet he couldn't stay, not if his nebulous plans for consulting began to firm up.

He was seated at his desk, desultorily checking three days' worth of email, when Brass walked in. "You rang?"

"Hi. Know what this is?"

He held out the key, and Brass took it, frowning slightly. "Too small for a house key, or motor vehicle. Locker, maybe."

"That's not a locker number on it. At least it doesn't appear to be."

"Maybe a safety-deposit box?"

Gil nodded slowly. "My leading suspect."

Brass sat down, but didn't relax, his expression uncomfortably reserved. "You working tonight?"

"No. But yesterday Warrick and I found that key, taped to the underside of one of Nick's desk drawers."

Even in the relatively gentle light of his office, he saw the spasm of pain ripple over Brass's bluff features, before disappearing behind the usual stoicism. The memory of that quick agony made Gil's stomach clench with helpless sympathy. Catherine was correct, as usual. This man was carrying a huge load on his back, and that burden was worse for the fact that it was unnecessary. Nick's death hadn't been Jim's fault. Gil felt like the worst kind of callous sadist for not doing his best to allay that guilt before now.

"Nick have any bank boxes you know of?" Brass sounded hoarse, and he laid the key on the desk as if he'd touched something loathsome.

"Nothing I'm aware of. Do you have any ideas how I might find out where this key fits?"

With a shrug Brass visibly slumped. "The usual ways, I guess. Check with his bank, see what they say. Wherever he had accounts." He produced a leaden smile, chilling in its utter humorlessness. "I'm no expert on locksmithing," he added after a moment. "A fact you no doubt know. Why ask me?"

Gil made himself smile, too, and hoped it wasn't as dead an expression as Jim's. "Ulterior motives. I'd like to invite you to dinner."

It clearly wasn't what Brass expected. His eyes widened, then narrowed. "Now? Tonight?"

"Nothing fancy. How about Luigi's? Pasta sound good?"

Luigi's had been a favorite of Nick's, too, but before Nick had even moved to Las Vegas it had been Brass who introduced Gil to the small, dim trattoria. Early days, when most conversations culminated with arguments, Jim's volatile nature crashing sometimes bitterly against the high wall of Grissom's unflappable intellect. Brass had mellowed since then, and in fairness, Gil had seen more than one instance where his own vaunted follow-the-dots method skewed sometimes violently to one end or another. And it had been Luigi's where he and Brass mended fences over past differences. What better place?

Some flavor of the same thoughts, he knew, were occurring to Jim as well, who slowly nodded. "Sure. But you're buying."

Brass ordered linguine alla vongole, but only picked at his food. Gil tasted his wine, and felt a ripple of sadness, not only at why they were there but what had taken away Jim's appetite, what had stepped between them weeks ago.

"What did you want to talk about?" Brass set his fork on his plate and reached for his own seltzer.

"Anything, nothing. I haven't seen much of you lately. I wanted to change that."

Brass kept his glass in his hand, regarding it with distant interest. "You doing okay?" he asked gruffly.

Gil nodded. "I'm all right, I think. I won't say it's been easy. You of all people know that isn't so. But I'm coping." He put down his own utensils and paused. "How about you?"

"Fine."

"Catherine spoke to me."

"Figures." Brass's mouth turned down in an unhappy scowl. "What'd she say?"

"Nothing I couldn't figure out on my own, once I opened my eyes." Gil sighed. "What happened to Nick wasn't your fault, Jim."

Brass nodded once, lips pursed. "I know."

"Do you?"

"Yeah. I do." A painful pause, and when Gil refused to add anything, Jim said, "But I was there. I could have –"

"What could you have done?" Gil asked flatly. "Stopped Ramos from pulling that trigger? Pushed Nick out of the way? Taken the shot yourself? From a quarter of a mile away?" He shook his head, fighting down a spasm of old, tired pain of his own. "It was a terrible thing, yes. And don't think a moment goes by – a single goddamn moment of each and every day – when I don't wish with all my heart and soul that it hadn't been Nick out there with that kid. But I know as well as I know anything else that it wasn't your fault. Blame the people who made the crank Hector Ramos took that night. Blame anyone, anything, but don't take it on yourself."

For a very long moment Brass didn't reply. When he finally did, it was in a voice Gil barely recognized. "It was open and shut, you know?" Low, husky, tight with something Gil slowly realized was unshed tears. "The case me and Nicky were working. That trip, it was just tying up loose ends. And that kid came out of motherfucking nowhere, Gil. Nowhere at all."

It occurred to him that he didn't want to hear this. He'd never heard Brass's version of events, and that was because he had never wanted to, never wanted to hear about Nick's last living moments on earth. But the companion thought was there, as well. Brass needed to tell him. And maybe, in spite of the pain, Gil needed to hear it.

"Go on," he said softly.

It didn't take long to tell. Their food was cold and mostly untouched, and later on Gil paid with a rueful smile.

"I was talking to the wife, you know. The alibi. And she was caving. You could see it in her eyes, all the time she's saying Yes, I was here, yes, I saw him, inside she knew we had her. Nick's off looking at the car. I didn't give it a second thought." His voice thickened to a harsh croak. "He's walked away a hundred times like that, all of you have, and as long as the site's secure I never cared."

"As far as you knew, it was secure."

"Except it wasn't."

Gil gave a slow, even nod. "No. Not this time."

"I could see her, about to change her story. Finally give it up. And I heard the shot. I mean, I remember it. She jumped, but I jumped higher. Had my sidearm in my hand before I ever thought about it, just automatic, you know? But the shot wasn't hubby, trying to fix the problem of the cop on his doorstep. It was off to the right, way off."

Brass cleared his throat. No professional distance in his eyes now; they were red and watery, and his face was deathly pale but for hot red patches on both cheeks. "I saw the kid first," he said waveringly. "Ramos. Waving that shotgun around. I didn't think, you know, I just fired. Got him in the shoulder, flipped him over on his back. He was laughing," he croaked, and reached for his water again. A sip, and he repeated, "Laughing."

He felt dizzy. As if the room's walls were pushing inward, down, or a big hand pressing on the top of his head.

"I started yelling for Nick, and he doesn't say anything. I mean, I knew. I knew right then. But I kept telling myself, maybe he just wounded him, maybe that shot went wild and he conked Nicky over the head with the shotgun, something. Except right then I knew it was bullshit, I'm running and I'm thinking all this. There's this building, they put –"

He broke off, and this time Gil reached out, clasping his fingers over Brass's wrist. "Don't," he said in a voice as gravelly as Brass's own. "Don't put yourself through it." Don't put me through it.

"You know what I thought about, when I saw him?" The red splotches were gone; Brass was deathly pale. "I thought about you. I thought, How will I ever make this up to Gil? Because I knew, you know, I knew what he – was to you. You were to each other. I saw all that. I knew."

After a moment Gil gave a tired nod. "I know you did, Jim," he whispered.

Brass swallowed convulsively. "All I could think was, how do you say you're sorry for something like this? Sorry? Doesn't even start to cut it. I don't know where to start."

Squeezing his wrist, Gil said, "I guess you start where we are now."

Brass met his eyes, gave a short nod. His too-cold hand covered Gil's, briefly, a short sharp squeeze. "Yeah," he rasped. "Guess so. Excuse me."

Gil watched him make his hunched way to the men's room, and then slowly drew his hand back, laced his fingers together. When the waiter appeared to take their plates, frowning at the uneaten portions, Gil ordered coffee and brandy for both of them. They arrived before Jim returned, eyes redder and puffier, but something restored in his step.

"Good thinking," he said softly, resuming his seat. He lifted his snifter. "What do we toast?"

Gil picked up his brandy. "To Nick, of course," he said, and smiled. "Who we both love, and miss."

Brass swallowed, but nodded gallantly. "To Nick."

The brandy tasted warm and sweet, burning all the way down. Gil regarded his glass, and then grinned. "You remember his first night working?"

Brass snorted. "I remember being amazed he came back the second night."

"No thanks to either of us, I don't think."

For the first time in too long, he heard Jim Brass laugh. An anemic chuckle, but Gil was more than willing to accept it. "You never know, Gil," Jim said.