11/13/05

THOSE WHO HUNT THE NIGHT

Chapter 9

"Yo, Stokes, you're not flirtin' with my wife, are you?"

"I keep trying, but she keeps insisting that she's a happily married woman," Nick said, with a cheeky grin at Warrick, who stood just outside the partially opened curtain surrounding Nick's hospital bed.

"Damn straight she is," the other man said emphatically, stepping closer to the woman in question and giving her a kiss on the cheek.

"Oh, eww, there are people trying to convalesce, here," Nick said in mock disgust. "Do you mind?"

Ignoring this comment, Warrick asked his wife, "So, are you ready to kick him out yet?"

Tina smiled at the easy banter between the two men. "Well, his blood pressure is back to normal," she said, slipping the blood pressure cuff off Nick's arm and rolling it up. "He's still nursing a concussion, so he's not cleared to return to work yet, but I think we can send him home."

"Yes!" After spending over 24 hours in Desert Palms Hospital, Nick was definitely ready to go home. He had seen more than enough of this place, in the course of his career, to last him a lifetime.

"Oh, here, I brought you some clothes from your house," Warrick said, holding up a small gym bag.

"Oh, thanks, man, you're a life saver."

Nick accepted the bag and slid off the bed. Remembering that his hospital gown was open in the back and that there was a lady present, he quickly reached around and pulled the flaps firmly closed. He started inching toward the room's bathroom, all the while making sure to keep his backside turned away from Tina.

"You do realize that I was the one who took your clothes off when they first brought you in," she said, with a smug smile.

"I did not need to know that," Nick said, his cheeks coloring slightly.

"Yeah, neither did I," Warrick agreed.

Tina rolled her eyes and gave her head a shake... men.

After Nick had disappeared into the bathroom, Warrick turned to her and asked, "So, what do you think?"

"Your friend is very charming, kind of cute, too. Is that why I'm only just now meeting him?"

"No, no, I just didn't want to overwhelm you with my family and my friends all at once."

"Oh, okay. Anyway, the answer is yes, he can stay with us."

"Great, I'll ask him."

Glancing around and seeing that they were as alone as they could be in a non-private hospital room, the curtain currently screening them from the other patients, Warrick pulled his wife closer and they started kissing.

"Hey, Nick, we just stopped by to see if- Oh, uh, sorry, Warrick, we didn't know you were going to be here," Catherine said, smiling uncomfortably at the couple. Sara stood behind her, grinning over the older woman's shoulder.

The couple quickly stepped apart. "Oh, hey, guys," Warrick said, returning the awkward grins. "Uh, Tina, this is Catherine Willows and Sara Sidle." He gestured to the respective woman. "Sara, Cath, this is Tina."

The three women exchanged their banal pleasantries. "So, where's Nick?" Catherine asked, changing the subject as quickly as she politely could.

"Uh, he's in the bathroom, getting dressed."

"Oh, well, we just stopped by to see if he needed a ride home, but I guess you've already got that covered. And better than us, we didn't even think to stop and get him some clothes."

The four people stood and looked at each other awkwardly, until Nick rejoined them a few minutes later, now wearing a pair of jeans and a maroon, long-sleeved t-shirt. He was still a bit pale and he had to sit back down on the bed as soon as he reached it. He took a deep breath and steadied himself against the head board as he nodded his greetings to Sara and Catherine.

"Are you okay?" Tina asked.

"Yeah, just a little dizzy."

"Well, that's to be expected. You're going to be dealing with that for a while yet."

"So, can I go home now?" he asked.

"Not until Dr. Webber reviews your chart and looks you over one last time. He should be on his way."

"Listen, Nick," Catherine spoke up, "Sara and I just stopped by to see if you needed a ride, but Warrick's obviously got that covered. So, we're going to take off. We've got a hot case we're working on. We'll check up on you later, at home."

After the two women had left, Tina asked, "What was up with the red-head? She seemed a little jumpy. Is she always like that?"

Warrick gave a shrug. "Oh, I don't know. She was probably just distracted by her 'hot case'."

"Oh, okay. Well, I'm going to go find Dr. Webber and see what's taking him so long."

Warrick gave his wife's hand a squeeze as she was leaving the room. He turned back to his friend, who was still hanging onto the head board with a death grip.

"You okay?" Warrick asked.

"Just feeling a little nauseated."

"Well, why don't you lie down for a while? It sounds like the doctor's going to be a few minutes at least."

"Good idea, I think I'll do that."

Nick lay back against the numerous pillows and sighed heavily, closing his eyes, trying to block out the slightly spinning room.

Warrick cleared his throat awkwardly. "Listen, Nick, Grissom sent a crime scene clean-up crew to your house, to clean up all the blood and stuff, but the two windows are still broken. Greg and I put up some plywood, so they're covered, but it's going to be a few days before someone can come out and get them replaced. Look, why don't you come and stay with Tina and I until that's done."

"In the Honeymoon House of Love?" Nick said, opening his eyes and grinning up at his friend. "No, I don't think so, but thanks anyway, Bro."

"Oh, come on, man, it's not like that. Our apartment has an extra bedroom."

"Does Tina know that you're offering to let your friend camp out in her apartment?"

"Our apartment and, yes, she agrees with me. You shouldn't be alone right now. You may be well enough to be released from the hospital, but that doesn't mean you should be all alone. I mean, you can't even stand up for a few minutes without getting dizzy."

"I'll be fine, Warrick, I've had concussions before."

"Yeah, and with every successive concussion, the recovery time is longer. And this one was pretty bad."

"Have you been taking pre-med classes in your abundant spare time or did your wife tell you all that?"

Warrick smiled. "Okay, yeah, Tina told me all that, but it doesn't change anything. You shouldn't be alone."

"I'll be fine, really, but thank you anyway. Look, I just want to go home and sleep in my own bed. If all of you want to fuss over me, you can come to me. I want to go home."

"Okay, okay, we just wanted to make sure you knew you had that option."

"Duly noted and thank you."

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As he approached Nick's house, Grissom rehearsed his words in his mind. After the younger man's kidnapping, Gil had decided to try turning over a new leaf, to be a more responsive supervisor and a better friend to his team. But just because he was making the effort to be more sociable, didn't mean he was anymore comfortable with the role. He was still essentially feeling his way.

Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the newly repaired door. After a few minutes, it opened and Grissom found himself facing the diminutive figure of Ruth Neussbaum. The little, white-haired woman smiled invitingly at the investigator.

"Why, it's Mr... Grissom, isn't it?" she asked.

"Yes, that's correct," he said, returning her smile. "It's nice to see you again, Mrs. Neussbaum."

"It's so nice to see you again as well." The woman stood staring up at the investigator for a moment. "Tell me, Mr. Grissom, are you Jewish?"

"Uh, no, ma'am, I'm not."

"Oh, that's too bad. I have a younger sister who's also a widow..."

"Oh, really? Uh, is Nick here?"

The woman's eyes suddenly narrowed suspiciously. "This isn't an official visit, is it? After all, Nicholas was only released from the hospital two days ago."

"No, ma'am, this isn't an official visit. I just wanted to see how he's doing. Is he awake?"

"Yes, he is. Please, come in."

Stepping into the house, Grissom immediately saw Nick sprawled comfortably on his couch. He was wrapped in a thick, blue blanket and was propped up by a couple of pillows. He looked tired, but fairly alert. His color was definitely better than it had been when they'd first found him in the cabin in the mountains. He gave his supervisor a wan smile in greeting.

Having obviously appointed herself hostess, Ruth indicated a nearby chair and invited Gil to sit. "I just made some soup for Nicholas. Would you like some, Mr. Grissom?"

"Oh, no, thank you, Mrs. Neussbaum, I'm fine. I don't need anything. I just wanted to chat with Nick for a few minutes."

"Very well, since you are his supervisor," the woman said magnanimously. "But don't you dare tire him out! He's been through enough already. He's doesn't need to be interrogated."

Gil tried very hard not to smile at the protectiveness in the little woman's tone. She wasn't angry with him, yet, but she was making it very clear to him that she could be, if he didn't obey her commands.

"No, ma'am," he said quickly. "I'm not here to interrogate Nick, just to ask him a few questions."

"Mrs. Neussbaum, it's alright," Nick spoke up. "I've slept most of the morning. I think I can handle it."

"Well, alright, I'll just go on home and watch my soaps. I'll come back and check on you in a little while. Now, eat your soup, dear, before it gets cold." The woman gave him a pat on the cheek and left the house.

"Well, she seems to be taking her self-appointed role of mother hen very seriously," Gil commented with a smile.

"Oh, very," Nick agreed. "She chased Greg and Sara away yesterday, because she thought Greg was acting too 'excitable'. I tried to explain that that's just how Greg is, but she wouldn't listen."

"Well, I'll make an effort to curb my excitability."

Nick smiled at the extreme unlikelihood of Grissom getting overexcited about anything not directly related to a case. "So, what's up?" he asked.

"I just wanted to make sure that you had everything you needed, but it looks like you're in pretty good hands. So, are you able to keep anything solid down?"

"Not yet. I can manage soup, that's about it."

"I know earlier, you said that you didn't remember anything after Vero attacked you. I was wondering, have any of those memories come back at all?"

"Uh, no, they haven't. My doctor says that I may have post-concussion syndrome. He said that some memory loss is not uncommon. I may eventually recover those memories or I may not. I just have to wait and see."

Grissom noticed that while Nick spoke of this, he kept his eyes downcast, staring at his hands, which were busily twisted the edge of the blanket. Gil didn't know why, but he was positive that Nick was lying to him. The younger man did remember what had happened to him, how he had come to be in that cabin in the mountains, but he was obviously not going to share this information with anyone else. Gil sighed dejectedly, realizing that he would simply have to accept this.

"Have you heard from Mercy at all?" he asked abruptly.

That brought the dark eyes up and was that fear he saw in them? Fear for whom? Or was it simply concern?

"No, why?" Nick asked.

"I was just wondering. She seems to have disappeared. The New Orleans field office claims they have no records indicating that she ever actually worked there and no one remembers her. Quantico says that she's on an extended leave of absence. I just thought she might have contacted you. I had gotten the impression that the two of you had been intimate."

"I haven't heard from her," Nick answered evasively. "Is she in trouble?"

"No, not necessarily. Brass and I would like to talk to her. It was her cell phone that led us to you. How did it get in that cabin, if she wasn't there as well? And if she was there, why didn't she just tell us where you were? And why did she take you from your house in the first place?"

Again the dark eyes dropped. "I don't know," Nick whispered. "I don't even remember her being here at all that night."

Grissom nodded. There was a part of him that wanted to grab the younger man by the shoulders and shake him, demand that he tell the truth, the whole truth. But another part of him thought that perhaps it was best for everyone that Nick kept silent. As much as Gil had tried to deny it and as much as he'd tried to come up with a better theory, even he had to admit to himself, that Greg's wild theory about vampires was the only one that answered all of their questions.

Grissom would never admit out loud that he was seriously considering this theory and certainly never to Greg, even though he knew the young man hadn't been entirely serious when he'd proposed it. It went against everything Gil believed in, or didn't believe in. It directly contradicted the principals of Occam's Razor, given two equally predictive theories, choose the simpler. The problem was, the simpler theories, just didn't quite add up, the way the vampire theory did.

What was the scientist to do when all of his science and logic failed him? Did he give in and embrace the wild, untried theory? Wasn't this how the ideas of Chaos Theory and the Butterfly Effect were born? Or did he continue to plod on, pushing himself relentlessly toward an answer which made him more comfortable?

Gil looked over at Nick, who was still not meeting his eyes and was methodically tearing at the fuzz on the blanket across his lap. Abruptly Gil realized how selfish he was being. This wasn't simply about his quest for the truth, his desire to have his questions answered. There was Nick to consider. It was obvious that the younger man knew more than he was telling and it was also obvious that he didn't want to share his secrets. If Gil continued to dig for the truth, what would it do to Nick?

Nick had already been through so much and he seemed to be getting his life back together. What right did Gil have to disturb that hard-won peace of mind? None, he realized. He had no right whatsoever. For Nick's sake, he would leave this mystery alone. After all, in essence, the case was solved. DNA had confirmed the body in the morgue was Jimmy Vero. His reign of terror was at an end. They had gotten Nick back, reasonable intact. Were the little, nagging unanswered questions really all that important in the long run? No, they weren't and Grissom would let them remain unanswered.

"Well, I guess, I'll just have to let my questions go," Gil said, standing. "I'm sorry if I've brought up anything painful."

"No, everything's fine," Nick said quickly and Gil didn't miss the brief flash of relief that passed over the younger man's face.

"Well, I should probably go. I wouldn't want Mrs. Neussbaum to have to chase me away, too."

"No, you don't. She may be small, but she can be quite the battleaxe when she puts her mind to it."

"I believe it." Gil reached over and gave Nick's shoulder an awkward squeeze. "Get some sleep."

"I will. Thanks for stopping by."

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Later that night, Nick was sitting on his couch, watching television. The novelty of being home in the evening had worn off very quickly and he was starting to get bored. He had slept on and off most of the day, so at the moment, he wasn't tired. But he couldn't really do anything. If he stood up for more than a few minutes, he got dizzy and had to sit or lie down again. He also couldn't read for more than a few minutes before the words started to jumble together and he got a splitting headache. It was incredibly frustrating.

About all he could do was sit and watch television and he was sick of that. Even the Discovery Channel and Animal Planet had temporarily lost their appeal to him. He wanted to get out of his house. He wanted to be doing something, working, anything that would occupy his mind and stop his thoughts from dwelling on Mercy.

Nick knew that Grissom hadn't entirely believed him when he'd said he didn't remember anything that happened to him, but he hadn't been entirely lying. There were large gaps in his memory and other parts that were only hazily remembered. He vividly remembered Vero attacking him, but things got a little questionable after that.

He had a fuzzy memory of seeing Mercy and Vero fighting, of the two moving in unnatural ways, too fast, too fluid, too... everything. But he had already sustained the concussion at this point; perhaps this had affected his vision. The next thing he remembered with any clarity was he and Mercy sitting in her vehicle at what he thought was a rest area. He remembered that she had seemed very anxious and out of sorts. All he remembered feeling was incredibly cold.

The next thing he remembered was being at last warm and comfortable, lying on a soft surface. But he also remembered that the warmth had not brought with it a feeling of safety. In fact, he remembered being frightened, but of what, he wasn't certain... Mercy? She had made him an offer he couldn't accept and this had angered her. But what had the offer been? He remembered that it had had something to do with life and death.

He had a very vague memory, or perhaps it was just an impression, that another person had been present at some point. He thought Mercy and this person had argued. He very hazily remembered Mercy saying good-bye to him and nothing more. When he awoke in Desert Palms Hospital, it was with an unshakable feeling that he should not tell anyone anything he remembered after Vero had attacked him. He had no idea where this feeling had come from, but he had obeyed it without a second thought.

Now he was left trying to piece together these vague, fragmented memories into something cohesive and whole. He wasn't having much success and it was irritating him to no end, like an itch at the back of his brain.

He had felt a connection with Mercy and he had trusted her, trusted her enough to take her to his bed. He hadn't felt comfortable enough with anyone to do that in a long time. And yet, he had the feeling that she had betrayed that trust somehow, but that that betrayal had been prompted by love, which didn't make any sense. How could someone betray another out of love? It left him unsure of how he should feel about the missing FBI agent. Should he be angry with her or should he be mourning her loss? He honestly wasn't sure. And why had she so abruptly left anyway?

He was startled out his funk by the sound of a knock on his door. Hoping that it was one of his friends come to distract him from his obsessive thoughts, he stood and made his way a bit unsteadily toward the door. Looking through the peephole, he saw a blond man in a black suit standing on his doorstep. There was something vaguely familiar about the man, but Nick couldn't remember why that should be so.

Apparently aware that he was being observed, the man smiled slightly and reached into an inner pocket of his suit jacket. He held up a black wallet and flipped it open. Nick saw that it was an FBI ID. He couldn't make out the name, but he was fairly certain that the man was here about Mercy. Nick unlocked and opened the door.

"Good evening, Mr. Stokes. I'm Special Agent Tristan O'Bannon. I'm a friend of Mercy's. May I come in?" the man asked.

Nick said nothing, but stepped to the side and gestured for the man to enter. In the living room, the two men sat down opposite each other, Nick on the couch, Tristan on the chair.

"Where is Mercy?" Nick asked, getting right to the point.

"Well, she's in a bit of trouble. She annoyed the Council and now she's being punished."

"The Council?"

"Oh, sorry, the Vampire Council."

"Right..." Nick knew these words should be disturbing him a lot more than they were. Some of those fragmented memories started to click into place. "How is she being punished? Is she alright?"

"Well, no, she's not alright, but don't worry, she will have served her time in about a year. Let's just say that she's being incarcerated and leave it at that. She wouldn't want me to go into too much detail. But she wanted me to come here and tell you that her offer still stands. Do you remember her offer?"

"Yes," Nick said softly. It was all starting to come back to him. He remembered the offer and he remembered why he had refused it.

"Good. She wants you to know that if you change your mind, she'll be more than happy to help you out, after her year is over, of course. Now, if you should happen to change your mind before the year is up, I will be happy to take her place. But I rather think you'd be more comfortable with her."

"Yeah," Nick said quickly. "But that's it? That's all you came here for? To give me that message?"

"Mercy also wanted me to assure you that you are in no danger. Provided that you do not disclose anything you witnessed or heard during the last few days, the Council will take no action against you."

"Okay, no problem. No one would believe me anyway."

"Exactly," Tristan said with a smile. Once again, he reached into an inner pocket of his jacket and took out a business card. He handed this to Nick. "This is for you."

The card was made of heavy, black stock, with the printing stamped in silver foil. There was simply a phone number and a name printed on it. The number was very long, obviously an overseas number. The name was Rachel. No last name was given.

"Who's Rachel?" Nick asked.

"A friend," Tristan said, with a vague shrug. "If, for any reason, you wish to contact Mercy, or even myself, call that number and ask for Rachel. She'll make sure your message is delivered."

"Okay."

"Very well, then, my business here is concluded. Good luck to you, Mr. Stokes." Without any further pleasantries, the blond man stood, straightened his suit and left the house.

Nick sat where he was and simply stared into space for a long time, trying to comprehend this incredibly strange visit. Remembering the card still in his hand, he stared down at it. He wasn't familiar enough with overseas phone numbers to recognize what country the number would connect to. He wondered if perhaps Archie could trace it's origins at the lab.

What am I thinking? he abruptly asked himself. I don't want anything to do with these... people. I don't want any part of this. Standing, he crushed the card in his hand and tossed it into a nearby waste basket. Suddenly feeling exhausted, he decided to go to bed.

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Opening his eyes, Nick found himself once more lying in his Plexiglas box, surrounded by the eerie, green glow. He was aware of a curious sensation of weightlessness and he turned his head to the side. Instead of seeing the press of dirt and rock against the plastic sides of his prison, he saw only blackness. He turned to the other side and saw the same thing. All around him, there was only impenetrable darkness, as if he and his box were floating in a sea of blackest ink. But floating where?

Even as he was pondering this, he felt something brush up against the edge of the box, somewhere near his feet. Lifting his head as high as he could, he just caught sight of something pale 'swimming' away to disappear in the blackness. His heart was suddenly pounding loudly in his ears and he looked around him, both hoping and dreading to see more of the mysterious pale things.

While he was looking off to his left, something large thumped into the right side of the box, making it shudder. He turned to look and immediately recoiled in horror at the thing pressed against the box, inches from his face. It was a pale and distortedly puffed face, neither recognizably male nor female. It looked very much like the bloated corpses of drowning victims. The eyes were dark and horribly vacant. The mouth was open, revealing the blackened stumps of teeth. Long, white tendrils of hair floated out around the head like a living nimbus or clawing tentacles.

The face pressed closer to the box, flattening the nose grotesquely against the side. The mouth moved as though trying to speak, but no sound issued forth. Pale, long-nailed hands appeared beside the head and also pressed against the box. They began scrabbling and clawing at the box, obviously trying to find a way to open it...

Nick awoke with a start and quickly sat up, breathing heavily and trying to ignore the wave of nausea which had accompanied his abrupt movements. He ran a shaking hand over his face and tried to force his heart rate back to normal.

It had been a long time since he'd dreamt of the box. The floating corpse face had been a new twist. Was this some side effect of the concussion? He had never heard of people suffering from nightmares with head trauma, but maybe it was something the doctors didn't like to advertise.

Slightly calmer now, he forced himself to think back to his nightmare and try to dispassionately analyze it, just as his therapist had taught him. Dr. Carlyle had told him of the theory that dreams were simply our mind's way of entertaining itself while our bodies slept. The mind replayed images from our thoughts, reviewed events of our day, and sometimes, gave form to our lingering fears.

Nick knew from previous sessions, that for him, the box represented helplessness. It seemed fairly obvious that the corpse face represented death. Thus analyzed, the nightmare could be interpreted as a manifestation of Nick's fear of death and his helplessness to fight it. Realizing this didn't really make him feel any better. Of course he feared death, didn't everyone to some degree? And of course he couldn't prevent it, no one could. Everything died eventually. It was one of the supreme laws of nature... Or was it?

Climbing out of bed, he padded barefoot, out to the living room. Flipping on the overhead light, he went to the waste basket and rifled through it. Finding the small, crumpled bit of black cardboard, he took it into the spare bedroom. He used this room as an office and there was an antique, roll-top desk in one corner. His parents had bought him the desk for Christmas one year.

Turning on the lamp that sat on top of the desk, he pushed back the slated top. Seating himself in front of the desk, he carefully smoothed the crumpled card flat on the desk top. He sat for a long time, staring at it. Was this his means to cheat death, to fight back and take control of his destiny? Did he have the courage to take advantage of this offer? Would it even be courage to do so? Or would it be cowardice? Sitting here, alone in the shadows of his house, having just awoken from a nightmare about death, he wasn't feeling quite so firm in his previous convictions.

Picking up the lamp with his left hand, he picked up the key he kept hidden underneath, with his right hand. The key unlocked a small drawer of the desk, where he kept important papers. Unlocking the drawer, he slid it open and dropped the business card inside. He closed the drawer and locked it again. Returning the key to its home, he leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.

He was once again exhausted, but he was feeling much calmer now than he had a few minutes ago. He would decide what to do with the card later, or maybe never. Perhaps just knowing that it was there, that he had an option, an out, if you will, would be enough to help see him through the uncertain, darkness that lay ahead of him. Opening his eyes, he stood, turned off the lamp and went back to bed.

THE END