Afterlife

By EB

©2005

Chapter Fourteen

His phone woke him from a sleep so deep it was like paralysis. Gil drew a couple of breaths, fumbling for the cell, and glanced instinctively at the clock by his bed. Nearly nine. He'd been asleep for ten hours. No wonder he was groggy.

His own voice sounded strange to his ears, thick and barely intelligible. A pause, enough for him to think about saying hello again, and a man said, "You've crossed the line."

Gil sat up, sleepiness vanishing in a second of cold shock. "What line?" he asked.

"Haven't you heard about letting sleeping dogs lie? Have you been listening to me? I could cover for you this far. No further. You're on your own, Mr. Grissom."

Gil swallowed. "When haven't I been? You say you've been covering for me? Covering what? Who do you work for? What's your interest in this?"

"My interest is in staying alive," the man hissed. "They're onto you now. They know what you're doing."

"Who is they?' Tell me!"

A long pause, and the man said, "If you proceed, you have to understand what you're getting into."

"How can I? You've told me nothing!"

"Henley-Jackson is only the beginning. There's more, much more. It goes higher than you've imagined. All the way to the top, Mr. Grissom."

"The top of what?"

"Check your vehicle."

"What –"

Nothing. Gil hung up, muttering a sodden curse under his breath.

A shower and careless shave later, he made his way downstairs. He was expecting to be alone, but Nick's parents sat at the kitchen table, the remains of breakfast littering their plates.

"Gil." Liz put down her coffee cup and gave him a thin smile. "How are you feeling?"

"Better, thank you." Gil glanced at Hank. "Morning."

"Coffee's hot. Help yourself."

"Thanks."

He drank half a cup standing by the coffeepot, and then said, "Be right back."

His rental car was locked, but a brown manila envelope sat on the passenger seat. Heart trip-thumping in his chest, Gil unlocked the door and reached in to grab it. All the way to the top. The top of what? Would this package say? Or would it be cryptic, as all the rest of his unknown informant's words up to now?

Inside, Liz gave him a quizzical look. "Anything?"

"I'm not sure yet."

He took the package upstairs, furtive and seething with impatience. Seated on the bed, he ripped the envelope open, thinking about an earlier, similar one and the bizarre puzzles it presented. That day seemed like years ago already. Would this one hold any actual answers? Or just more endless questions?

The envelope held two items. The first was a densely covered sheet of paper, and Gil frowned, staring at it. Arabic, it must be. Graceful script, utterly unintelligible.

Sighing, he looked at the second item.

It was an 8x10" photograph of Nick.

Gil gave a strangled sound. Nick, alone on a city street somewhere. Noplace Gil recognized, and for the moment he didn't care. Was this taken after Nick's "death?" He looked the same as he had the day the shooting happened. Hair cut military-short, dressed in inconspicuous khakis and a dark shirt. Was this Las Vegas? If it was, it was no area Gil had ever seen.

Hot tears welled like acid in his eyes, obscuring the photograph. He leaned his head back, willing them down. Or was this Nick, now? Maybe yesterday? Alive and breathing, not a mark on him? Living somewhere else, using an assumed name? Maybe the packet of false identification had already been rifled, missing the set Nick had taken to make his escape. The leftovers were the rejects.

And he hadn't taken Gil with him. He'd run, and left everything behind, his life, his career, his lover.

Downstairs, the doorbell rang. With a titanic effort Gil made himself not look at the photograph again, stuffing it and the Arabic-language paper back into the envelope. Should have thought to dust for prints, he thought wildly, and remembered his kit was at home, back in Vegas. It was a bizarre mistake to make. Why hadn't he planned ahead? He knew he was going to work on Nick's mystery; shouldn't he have brought more with him?

Voices, exclaiming, carrying up the stairwell. His hands trembled badly as he stowed the enveloped in his open briefcase. He reached up to wipe his wet cheeks, drew a couple of deep breaths, and headed for the stairs.

"Gil," Liz said to him in the living room, her face softened with a smile. "Guess who's here?"

The back of his neck prickled superstitiously. He thought he already knew, as he turned slowly, looking over by the fireplace.

"Hey, Gil," Cabe Stokes said evenly. "How you holding up?"

Gazing at him, Gil felt the tears come back, and quashed them viciously. "You," he managed. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "You bastard."

Cabe's expression didn't change, even as Gil heard Liz's gasped, "Gil?" behind him. "Your idea to dig up my brother's body?" Cabe asked, gazing intently at him. His expression was impossible to read. "Wish you'd talked to me first."

"Tell me what you know," Gil grated. Bright spots twinkled in the periphery of his vision. His heart galloped in his ears, a loud thump that made it hard to hear. "Tell me!"

"I don't know anything more than you do."

"Cabe?" Liz sounded querulous, darting a look from her older son to Gil and back again. "What's going on? What's this about?"

"Nothing," Cabe said calmly, still watching Gil. "Right, Gil?"

Gil put a shaking hand to his temple. "You liar," he said thickly, as the room started slowly revolving around him. "You KNOW. And you never TOLD me."

"Sit down, man. You're about to –"

It was very hard to breathe. And his pulse was so damned loud. He felt a quick surge of nausea, bright and disgusting, and then the floor rushed up to meet him.

"Should have seen this coming."

Gil watched Al Robbins methodically adjusting his stethoscope. "What coming?"

"Frankly? Where do I even begin? You're exhausted, Gil. Your blood pressure is alarmingly high. Your resting pulse even now is 110, and that's tachycardia, in case you were wondering." He pulled the cuff off Gil's arm and set it aside. "That syncopal episode in the living room was a warning," he continued severely. "One you were probably lucky to get. You're not a kid anymore. Stop treating your body as if it were indestructible."

Gil leaned his head back on the pillow. At least the headache was gone, but his pulse was still audible, thumping tinnitus-like in his ears. "I fainted."

"Very much so. You were out for more than an hour. Nick's mother was frantic."

"How did I get up here?"

"Cabe, mostly. If I hadn't known he was Nick's brother, I'd never have guessed; he's much heav –"

"Cabe. Where's Cabe?" Gil pushed at the mattress with his hands, and Robbins reached down to stop him.

"Forget about that," Al said gruffly. "You're staying flat on your back until I see better measurements."

"I'm fine. I just need –"

"You need rest, and to damn well relax. You won't do Nick any good if you keel over with a stroke or an MI."

Gil stared at him. "Nick. The ph -- The test. The DNA test. Have they –"

Robbins's hand squeezed Gil's upper arm. "Chuck called a few minutes ago. Preliminary, but you were right. It's not Nick's body."

Gil flopped back, eyes closing. "God. Oh thank God."

"Liz Stokes is downstairs right now. There's a lot of hubbub going on, as you probably would expect. Whose body is it, if not Nick's, and so on." He sighed. "And where is Nick, if not dead?"

Gil shook his head slowly, without opening his eyes. "I don't know. But I believe Cabe does."

"Surely not, Gil. If he did, and didn't tell anyone –"

"How soon can I go?" Gil asked flintily.

Robbins considered him. "The labetalol I gave you should help your blood pressure soon," he replied. "But this is not an acute problem, it's chronic. You need a full workup, Gil, echocardiogram, stress test, the whole nine yards. Not to mention possibly a cranial CT as well, make sure a TIA didn't cause your blackout."

"I don't have time for that."

"Need I remind you of the potential consequences of inaction?"

"Write me a prescription," Gil said woodenly. "I'll do that much. The rest will have to wait."

"I'm not licensed to practice medicine in Texas, Gil."

"So get Chuck Clemons to write it."

"He'll want to know why."

Gil snorted. "Then tell him. But I have things to do. They can't wait, Al. Nick can't wait."

Robbins gave a slow nod. "For all you know, Nick could be in another country right now. What if he doesn't want to be found? Have you considered that?"

"Of course," Gil snapped. "But I don't believe that. I can't believe it."

"Any lightheadedness, blurred vision, facial drooping – you call me immediately, or Chuck Clemons. In fact don't even bother; go to the nearest hospital, Gil. Swear you'll do that. This goes against my better judgement. You MUST promise me you will take responsibility, as best you can."

Gil nodded. "Agreed."

Robbins swallowed. "If it's all the same to you," he said hoarsely, "I'd just as soon not trade your life for Nick's."

"It won't come to that."

"I pray you're right."

When Robbins finally allowed him up, there was no sign of Cabe. Asking Liz was fruitless; she was entirely focused on other matters.

"I have a meeting with Joe Andrews at noon," she told him, glancing at her watch. "He's the SAC around here."

Gil blinked at her. "You're involving the FBI?"

"My son is missing. Two states are involved. It's their jurisdiction."

"But it's –"

"I appreciate your involvement, Gil. Far more than I could possibly say." She regarded him without smiling. "But at this point I have to ask you to let me handle matters, all right? I will find Nick. It's just a matter of time."

Try asking someone a lot closer to home, Gil thought, but something kept him from saying it. Instead he nodded. "And Hank?"

"Went back to Austin this morning. He's seeing the governor today."

The creeping sense that this was the wrong way to go about it left him wordless. He shrugged, fighting down a swell of worry. What else could she do? Now that Nick's was officially not the body inside that grave, the natural thing was to start a manhunt.

"Liz, where is Cabe?"

"He said he had business to attend to."

Gil nodded. "Business related to Nick?"

She frowned. "He didn't say. Why?"

"Never mind." He turned, clenching his teeth.

"Gil. What do you know that you aren't telling me?"

He glanced back at her. "I'm not sure," he said honestly. "Maybe nothing."

"Maybe not nothing." Liz lifted her chin. "What mess was Nick in? Tell me!"

"I wish I knew."

"Did he plan this?" she snapped. "Did you plan it together?"

He swallowed and said, "You think I knew about this all along? You're wrong, Liz. As far as I knew, Nick was dead. Maybe he planned this. He planned something, certainly, but whatever it was, he didn't tell me about it."

She blinked and looked down. "I'm sorry, I knew that already." Pressing her left temple with her fingers, she shook her head. "I can't get past it," she whispered. "The idea that he's been alive all this time, and he never let us know. He let us grieve, Gil. You, me, everyone. And he did nothing about it." She looked up finally, and Gil saw with a pang that her eyes were filled with tears. "My son would never do something so – cruel. Never. Not unless he had no choice."

Gil gave an unsteady nod. "I believe that, too."

"It would make him – a monster. Was he a monster? What didn't I know about my son, Gil?"

Pretty much the very same things I didn't know, he thought, and pressed his lips together. "I guess we'll both find out, somehow, won't we?" he asked softly.

She gave a silent nod.

"I'm going – out," he added after a long moment. "I need to think."

"Be careful, Gil."

"Of course."

The sun outside was late-summer blazing hot, and sweat popped out immediately on his forehead. Outside, but where was he going? He needed to act, but there was nothing to act upon.

His cell phone rang, and he flinched and fished it out of his pocket.

"We need to talk," Cabe said in his ear.

Gil stiffened, stopping short by his rental car. "Agreed. Where?"

"Meet me at the Fair Park. The fountain by the band shell."

"Ca –"

"Don't tell Mom. Whatever you do. If you love Nick, if you care about him at all – don't tell a goddamn soul. You got that?"

"I got it," Gil snapped.

The State Fair was still a few weeks away; the park grounds were mostly deserted, lonely in waiting for crowds to come. Gil turned off Cullum onto MLK and eased the rental down the street. The fountain was easy to see; large and planted with splashy flowers. He parked nearby, and set out on foot, the back of his neck prickling uneasily.

He stood for about five minutes before Cabe was visible, walking briskly from an alcove near the band shell. His handsome face was tight with tension, and he gave Gil a crisp nod. "You made good time."

"Where is he?" Gil asked bluntly.

Cabe glanced around, licking his lips. "I can't tell you that."

"Bullshit. You choose not to tell me. He's alive, Cabe, I have the proof now. I'm sick and tired of these games!"

"They aren't games." Cabe sighed, eyes flickering restlessly around the park. "And this isn't safe. We need to go someplace."

Gil crossed his arms. "I'm not going anywhere, not without more than that – crap."

"Nick's alive," Cabe said slowly. "And if you want him to stay that way, you'll walk away, Gil. Just walk away. And don't look back."

"Oh, for God's –"

"Haven't you done enough already? Jesus, how much clearer can I be? You can't help him, Gil, you can't. Let him go, and someday -- Someday you'll understand. Please."

"I want to understand NOW!" Gil bellowed.

Cabe opened his mouth, and Gil heard a faint coughing sound, brief and dull as the sodden wind whipping his pants legs around his ankles. Cabe's eyes widened, and then he stumbled forward, grasping at Gil with both hands.

Gil caught him, oofing under his sudden weight, and saw the blossoms of blood on Cabe's shirt back.

Another cough, quiet and demure, and a bullet split the air next to Gil's ear.

"Jesus," he gasped, dragging Cabe's limp body against the scant shelter of the fountain.

A second later there was the ringing sound of unsilenced rifle fire, and then the only thing Gil could hear was the happy gurgling of the fountain, and Cabe's noisy, wet breathing.