Afterlife

By EB

(c)2004

Chapter Twelve

The paper rattled in his hands. For some reason he couldn't stop this infernal shaking. The rest of him felt calm. But his hands were so cold, and not even the strongest exertion of will could make them stop trembling.

He caught the look of pity in Catherine's eyes, and set the printout on his desk. His hands he hid in his lap. "You're right," he said hoarsely. "It's not Nick's blood."

His office door was closed. Jim Brass and Catherine sat tensely in the two chairs near his desk, wearing identical anxious expressions. Never mind that it was past three in the morning, and both of them were quite likely needed for more official pursuits. No one had to say it: This took precedence.

"Christ," Brass said, sounding as rattled as Gil had ever heard him. He scratched his scalp, and Gil took a little bleak satisfaction seeing those fingers were shaking, too. "This just isn't fucking possible. I was THERE, Gil, I saw him."

"You didn't see the shooting." Catherine didn't look at him. Her attention was still focused on Gil. "You saw the aftermath. I know it sounds crazy. But it's possible, all right."

"So what does it mean?" Brass glared at her. "You saying Nicky isn't dead?"

"I don't know."

Her hollow tone stirred something inside Gil; he sat up, tried to force some spit into his ash-dry mouth. "There's only one way to be absolutely sure." To his own ears his voice sounded like an old man's. Tremulous, weak.

Catherine's color got even worse. "They'll never agree to it," she said in a low, tight voice. "Jesus, Gil."

Brass looked back and forth between them. "What?"

Gil shrugged. "With this evidence, they'll have to."

"He's Catholic. He's buried in consecrated ground. You'll need the Church's permission as well as the state's."

"I'll get it."

"You're gonna ask for an exhumation order, aren't you?" Brass blew an explosive sigh. "Aw, Jesus."

"He's in TEXAS, Gil," Catherine snapped. "Even if you get the order, you can't bring his body back here. They'd never agree to that."

He gave a curt nod. "Then I'll have the autopsy conducted in Dallas."

"And what do you think his family will have to say about this? They'll fight you every step of the way."

"I think they'd want to know if it was really Nick buried in that grave. Do you think it is?"

She swallowed. "What I think doesn't matter."

"Yes. Yes, it does." He leaned forward. "You did the tests. You called me. You saw this with your own eyes. You think I'm wrong to believe further investigation is called for? If this were anyone but Nick, you'd be agreeing with me!"

"I don't want you to get your hopes up," she said stiffly. "We don't know exactly what happened that night. We don't."

"No, we don't. But it's our job to find that out, Catherine. Without exhuming the body we can't proceed. And I can't leave it at that. I can't. I refuse."

"It isn't proof, Gil!"

"It's reasonable doubt," he countered coldly. "That's all I need."

"Question is, what the judge will need," Brass said. He sounded too calm, and Gil glared at him. Unruffled, Brass continued, "We got no jurisdiction in Texas. It'll all be up to the judge there."

Catherine seemed to shrink a little, sagging in her chair. "God, his poor parents," she whispered.

And what about ME? Gil felt like snapping. He was MY lover! MY partner! But he forced the impulse down, shoved it to the side to say instead, "I'd feel sorrier for them if they went on believing their son was dead, when he's not."

Catherine's haunted eyes met his. "And if he is?" she said softly. "And we've all gotten our hopes up? What then, Gil?"

He couldn't keep looking at her. Too honest. "I'll worry about that later."

"Just – full steam ahead? Damn the consequences?"

Ignoring her, he focused on Brass. "I'll speak with Robbins. We'll need an initial authorization from him. Then the official request can be forwarded to the Texas state medical examiner's office."

"You asking me or telling me?"

Gil didn't reply to that, either. He stood, trying to ignore the way his knees quaked shamefully beneath him. "I need to find Al."

"Grissom, hold up a second."

When he looked around, Brass was standing, too. "You realize what this all means, right? You're calling for an official investigation. That means making all of this public. It reopens Nick's case. Brooks, too. It all comes out, Gil. You want that?"

"The longer we can keep it quiet, the better," Gil said after a moment. "The rest, I don't give a damn about. All right? Do what you have to do."

Catherine sighed. "Gil, what –"

"I don't care!" he snarled. "Just do it!"

If she said anything else, he didn't hear it. He was out the door, striding down the hall.

"God almighty."

Robbins had looked rather tired when Gil first buttonholed him near his office. Now he looked exhausted, and deeply shocked. "You're telling me that body wasn't Nick's?" His eyes met Gil's, haunted. "But there was never a question. He was ID'ed five times over. There was no reason for a full autopsy."

"Not then, no." Gil kept his voice level with difficulty. The urge – the NEED – to do something active was almost physically painful. "We had no reason to suspect it wasn't exactly as it appeared to be. Now we do. That's my point."

"I won't be allowed to do the autopsy in Dallas," Robbins said. "You realize that."

"I understand that. But I'd like you to be there. With me."

"Gil, I'm not sure this is sufficient to prompt the state M.E. to authorize an exhumation. I admit it's compelling, but not conclusive."

"Elizabeth McMartin is the Dallas County D.A. She also happens to be Nick's mother. Believe me, she'll make it happen."

Robbins's look was eloquent. "That assumes," he said gently, "that she concurs. Have you told her about your suspicions yet?"

"Of course I haven't. And they aren't suspicions, Al. They're evidence. Whose blood was it? If it wasn't Nick's?"

"The M.E. will then need an order from the circuit court. And all of this is in Texas, not Nevada. I have no authority there. I'd just be an observer."

"But the shooting happened in Nevada. You've got plenty of authority here."

Robbins gave a grudging nod. After a long moment he said, "This is going to make a lot of people very, very unhappy, Gil. Are you prepared for that? Truly?"

"I want the truth. I have to know if it's – Nick, in that grave." His voice creaked annoyingly, and he cleared his throat. "Because if it isn't--"

He couldn't go on, to his shame, and Robbins didn't appear to expect him to do so. "I'm not disagreeing with you," he said. "But I'd be remiss if I didn't bring up the problems I perceive."

"Duly noted." Gil swallowed. "You'll issue your authorization?"

"For what it's worth. The rest will be out of my hands."

"Understood."

"Do I ask the obvious question?"

Gil met his eyes. "If it isn't Nick," he said slowly, "where is he?" He gave a bleak snort. "Who's buried in Nick's tomb, something like that?"

"My thinking as well."

"I don't know. Of course I don't know." A hard, painful bubble rose in his chest, something hot and acidic. "Are you asking me if Nick allowed me – us – to believe he was dead when he wasn't? Isn't? I don't know that, either."

Robbins's chair creaked as he shifted uneasily. "Even with this new evidence, the likelihood that Nick is still alive is remote at best, Gil. Otherwise, why not contact you? You, of all people? Much less his family. It would be stunningly cruel."

"If – he's alive – there must be a reason for his silence. Something compelling."

"Are you prepared to find out after all this that he's not alive?"

Gil sat very still. "I don't know," he said dully. "I don't know anything any longer. I truly don't."

"If I can offer some advice? Before you do anything else, you have to speak with Nick's parents. They deserve to know what it is you're doing. Why you're doing it."

"I'm going to Dallas. Today."

He hadn't known he was doing it until he said it, but it felt right. It felt good, motion, decisions. In the midst of turmoil, at least he had one concrete goal.

"Fine, but if you want me to go with you, I'll need more notice than that."

"When we get the order. Then."

Robbins nodded very slowly. "All right. If you get it. Then yes. Then I'll come."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me, Gil." He looked away. "I don't know how this will end. I truly don't."

Gil put his hands on the arms of his chair and stood. "I have to go. You'll keep me informed?"

"Of course. Likewise?"

"Yeah."

"Gil? Be careful. Above all else."

He said, "Yes," even though he felt suddenly like laughing. Careful? How was that possible?

He booked an 0700 flight out, and at home threw a few things in his overnight bag. When had he last used it? When he made this same trip, for Nick's funeral? Now he was going back, the same airline, the same bag, to undo what had been done before. Insanity. It went against his nature, not thinking, not pausing to consider the ramifications.

With a silent snarl he zipped his bag and slung it over his shoulder. Ramifications be damned.

On his way out he stopped at his desk. When would he be back? There was no answer to that question yet. This trip could be a lengthy one. He pulled out his file drawer and extracted the heavy files containing Nick's various safety-deposit box items. Better to be safe, yes. Or at least well-equipped.

By 0715 he was in the air over Nevada, watching sightlessly out of a business-class window and nodding when the flight attendant asked him if he'd like some coffee. Yes, yes, bring on the caffeine. By all means. I don't think I'll sleep again for another year or two.

The rest of the in-flight service he turned away, killing time alternately studying the printouts of Catherine's analysis and staring at the white hillocks of cloud underneath the plane. Ramifications. Yes, there would be those. Neither Cath nor Jim had ever met Nick's parents. Gil had.

Relations between himself and Nick's family had always been good. Granted, he didn't know most of Nick's siblings all that well. But his parents, yes. Liz McMartin was a formidable woman, and he felt steady enough there to call her a friend. Hank, perhaps less so – he'd accepted Gil's unsanctified relationship with his younger son with admirable good grace, but there was always a touch of reserve there, a father silently but admittedly disappointed that there would be no grandchildren from this son's particular loins. Nor quite sure of Nick's much older, grayer significant other. Respect, there was; liking, less so.

All of that was normally not problematic. Now, with all of them still recovering from the shock and grief of Nick's untimely death, matters were altogether different. Gil's willy-nilly mix of job and personal involvement made his judgement suspect. Hank was an old-style paterfamilias; his deep faith and unstinting loyalty to the Church meant exhumation of human remains was almost certainly next to anathema to him, his job be damned. As it were.

It was Liz who would be able to sway her husband, if she herself were convinced of the need. It was Liz Gil planned to speak with, before anyone else. Even if he had to wait outside a courtroom to buttonhole her.

And that left Nick's siblings. They'd go with their parents' opinions, for the most part; even Jamie would, almost certainly. Cabe, who knew? And thinking of Cabe, Gil sat up a bit straighter in his seat.

What had Cabe done during his mysterious Vegas trip? Hunted for the key? It was the only answer to why he'd sought out Warrick, after having no luck with Nick's boxes. Had he had something to do with this?

A chill like pure ice ran up his spine. Did Cabe know the truth? Did Cabe know what had really happened to Nick that night?

If Nick really was still alive, did his brother know where he was?

No one else did. Gil was sure of it. That grief had been too real. There was nothing feigned about Nick's family's anguish. It had been Hank who wept, and Liz who sat stoically dry-eyed throughout the long funeral Mass. But at the graveside, even Liz had not been able to contain her grief, and her tears were the only ones that made Gil feel as if he, too, might weep. He hadn't. But yes, seeing Nick's mother's laudable reserve finally crumble had nearly been his own undoing.

He accepted a refill of his coffee, and waved away the snack. It all led back to the aspect he so desperately hated contemplating. If Nick was alive, where was he? Why had he not contacted him? Had this been a last-minute, desperate move? Faking his own death? If so, where in God's name had he gotten the body?

No. No, that was simply inconceivable. Not only that Nick might do such a monstrous thing, but that he COULD do it. Logistically, he might occasionally have access to an unclaimed dead body. But whoever had been shot – and Gil was sure, bone-deep positive, that it had not been Nick – he had been very much alive at the time of the shooting. The degree of staging required to fake that with an already expired corpse, and the amount of time Nick had had, were prohibitive. No, their dead man had begun that evening as a live one.

He leaned his chin on his hand, letting his forehead rest against the bulkhead. He had nothing. Nothing but hundreds of questions, that no one could answer. No one, save perhaps Cabe. And Cabe was in Houston. Houston, where all roads seemed to lead these days.

The captain's metallic voice announcing their approach to Dallas-Fort Worth shocked him. He swallowed over a suddenly bone-dry tongue. So this was it. Push had now officially come to shove. Very soon now things would be in motion. Things that, once started, could not be undone. Was he prepared for this? Really?

He tightened his seatbelt, and couldn't decide how to answer that.

He pulled his rental car off Industrial Boulevard and into a parking space, and sat motionless for a long moment. Then, moving with precision, he picked up his briefcase and climbed out.

As he'd feared, Liz McMartin was in court this morning, but her secretary told him she'd be back in her office by midday. Devoutly hoping she was right, he took the time to grab another cup of coffee and a muffin in the cafeteria, and then parked himself in the foyer, alertly watching the door.

The secretary, a matronly Hispanic woman, nodded at him at five minutes before one. "She's in her office," she told him as he approached her desk. "Go on in."

McMartin's office was a stately paneled room, befitting someone of her legal stature. But the smile on her face was purely personal, lighting up what could be a stern square-jawed visage and making it almost youthful. "Gil," Liz said, walking across the carpet and reaching out to take his hand in both of hers. "It's wonderful to see you."

Her kiss on his cheek was cool and dry, but he squeezed her hands just as hard as his own were squeezed in return. "Hi, Liz," Gil said thickly. "Sorry to just drop in like this. Is this a good time?"

"Are you kidding?" She snorted. "Around this zoo there's no such thing as a convenient time. Which means you're just fine. Come on, have a seat."

The chair she installed him in was absurdly comfortable, and for a moment, waiting for her to sit, he felt the impact of no sleep, of the frantic activity of the past couple of days. He was exhausted. And there would be no time to rest. Not for a while.

Liz's dark eyes weren't fooled. "I hope you don't mind me saying this, but you look like hell. What brings you to Dallas? I hope it's the food, but I have a feeling it's not."

Meeting her intuitive gaze, Gil felt a little humbled. "No," he agreed. "I wish it were that."

"So you're not just stopping by to see if you can take me to lunch."

"I'd like to take you to lunch, yes. I – need to speak with you. As privately as possible."

She gave a slow nod. "Well, you're in luck, at least somewhat. I'm through with court for the day. I do have a meeting at two, one that I probably shouldn't miss." She glanced at her watch. "I could fudge it, be a little late. He'll be pissed, but he'll be too nervous to take it out on me."

Gil licked his lips, choosing his words carefully. "I think," he said, "that you might not want to go to a meeting after we've spoken."

She said nothing for a moment, and he felt a little twinge, seeing the way the family-friendly look faded away, replaced by reserve. He'd scared her with that. But no help for it. She would feel much worse, soon enough.

"This isn't good news, is it?" she asked softly, finally.

"No. No, I'm afraid it's not. Or rather, not all of it."

She paused again, and then gave a crisp nod. "I've changed my mind. I think Mr. Deakins can wait after all." She picked up her phone and punched a single number. "Dolores? I need you to cancel Deakins for me. I know. I'll make it up to him later. Something's come up. Who? Did I say I'd talk with him today? God. Yes, call him, too. No, I'll be out of the office this afternoon. Family emergency. Yes. Thank you, dear."

"I'm sorry," he whispered dully. For a second he felt as if he might simply burst into tears, the way he had not, back in August.

"Gil?" Liz's reserve had shattered; now she looked shocked. "Are you all right?"

"I apologize. I think I'm – tired." He forced a smile, and saw that it hadn't worked; her expression was just as fearful as before. "Maybe we could – go. I'll be better with some fresh air."

"Of course." But her worried eyes didn't leave him, as she picked up a capacious bag and slung it over her shoulder.

They left by a back stairway he hadn't known was there, and by the time they reached sunshine, he felt a little more in control of himself. Enough that he could get in her perfume-scented car, nod when she asked if some restaurant or another would be all right. It didn't matter. He couldn't imagine being hungry, ever again.

"Does this have to do with Nick?" Liz asked, after steering them into traffic. Her voice was level, completely calm.

"Yes."

"Of course it does." She drew a deep breath and glanced at him, sighing. "Will this involve the rest of the family?"

"It will involve everyone," Gil said softly. "And more besides."

She didn't speak again, until the car was parked and they were inside a dim, quiet restaurant. The bespectacled host led them to an isolated table near the back, and Gil slid into the leather booth feeling as if he'd just stuck his head into the guillotine.

"I'd like a vodka martini, with three olives," Liz told the server, and glanced at Gil. "Have something alcoholic," she added gruffly. "You look as if you need it."

His smile didn't feel quite so fake this time. "The same," he said, nodding.

Their drinks appeared quickly, and Liz sent the server away, telling her they might or might not be eating. When she'd gone, Liz picked up her martini and said, "Before anything else. To family."

"To family," Gil agreed, and touched her glass with his own.

Liz tasted the drink and then set her glass down. "Now. What's got you so worked up you came all the way to Dallas just to take a girl to lunch?"

As much as he appreciated her stab at lightness, he couldn't share it. He took a big swallow of his martini, and then reached for his briefcase. "Some things have come up. Unexpected things."

"So I gathered."

"We'll need more than one martini for this."

"Well, we're in the right place. Best in town."

"I went through Nick's things about a month after his death. I found a couple of things I couldn't quite explain. A life-insurance policy I didn't know about." He slipped the folder out of his case. "And a key."

When they ordered their second round, Liz absently ordered several appetizers, something for them to nibble on. But by the time the savory-smelling food arrived, her appetite had evidently fled, as well; whatever she'd gotten, it was wasted. She ate nothing that afternoon, and neither did he.

Unlike others he'd filled in on various bits of the strange, long tale, Liz said next to nothing while he spoke. Listened, intently, and nodded occasionally when he looked his clarification at her. But otherwise she was silent and nearly motionless, only moving to sip desultorily at her bottomless drink.

He himself felt a little dizzy, long before he'd gotten to the part that had brought him here. But he kept going, and finally he heard himself saying that Catherine's DNA testing had showed the blood on Nick's shirt to belong to someone else.

Liz's flinch stopped him cold, and then he jumped too as her hand flew out, knocking over her glass and not stopping until her fingers covered her mouth.

"Liz," Gil said helplessly, reaching out to pick up the overturned glass.

Her eyes squeezed shut, and she rocked back against the cushion, saying nothing, breathing noisily through her nose.

Having pictured this moment so many times on the way here, he'd thought he was prepared. As prepared as it was possible to be, at least. But now he heard Catherine's voice inside his head

his poor parents

and wondered.

When Liz finally opened her eyes again, it was to send him a look of such anguish he felt gut-punched. Her hand shot out again, this time to grasp his wrist, slim fingers clinging hard. "Is he alive?" she asked in a hoarse, unrecognizable voice. "Is he? Tell me!"

"I don't know. I mean that. It's what I'm here to find out."

"Here?" She coughed something between a laugh and a sob. "Why here? We have a grave marker here, Gil, that's all."

"I know," he said softly. "That grave -- Liz, that's why I'm here."

She didn't meet his eyes, sliding out of the booth and walking to an alcove shrouding the bathrooms.

Well. He seemed to always end up sitting at tables these days, waiting for distraught companions to rejoin him. But unlike Brass, whose guilt Gil was there to assuage, he'd inflicted new pain this time. He'd cut Nick's mother off at the knees, and all based on the faint hope inherent in one lonely DNA test.

Round and round, Gil thought numbly, and where she stops, nobody knows. He picked up his drink and downed the remaining swallow.

He'd ordered coffee for them – another reminder of Jim Brass and a meal no one had eaten – and was sipping his own when Liz finally returned. Her makeup was repaired; only the red rims of her eyes gave away the truth. She picked up the coffee cup and drank half before regarding him.

"You came to exhume his body," she said in an inflectionless voice.

He set his own cup back in the saucer. "I have the M.E.'s authorization in my briefcase."

"And you want me to support you in this."

He considered his words carefully. "I would prefer it, yes. Based on the DNA evidence, however, I'll proceed regardless."

The chilly veneer cracked as she gave a slow nod. "All kinds of shit will hit the fan if you're wrong."

"I realize that. And if there were any other way, believe me, I'd take it. Anything at all."

She said nothing, finishing the rest of her coffee as quickly as the first half. Then she drew a deep breath. "If there's a stranger buried in my son's grave," she said hoarsely, "I want to know about it. We'll get the order. It may take a day or two."

He nodded, throat tight. "I understand. I'm sorry."

Something fiery and very like hatred burned in her eyes, and he wasn't entirely sure at least some of it wasn't meant for him. Her next words, however, gave him a bit of hope.

"You'll stay at the house, of course. Won't you?"

"If you want me to. Yes, I'd like that."

She studied the dregs of her coffee, and then smiled, sadly. "I'm not the only person at this table in pain," she said in a gentler voice. "This must have come as just as terrible a shock for you as for me."

It was his turn to look down. "Yes. On top of everything else, I –"

He didn't go on, and she didn't prompt him. A moment later their server appeared, and Gil took out a few bills with trembling fingers, shaking his head when the girl asked if he wanted change.

"Come on," Liz said, picking up her purse. "We have a lot to do."