Requital 5of?

Notes 'n stuff in Ch. 1

Seems like each chapter is longer than the last... hope no one minds -- you'll have to let me know... this one is a monster. Also, thanks for all the feedback. Keep it up. You guys rule.

"I think it was just a coincidence, but Brass will let us know how the interview goes."

Grissom held the door open for Catherine as they entered CSI headquarters.

"I know, I just hope it wasn't a complete waste of time," she answered. "I'll just be glad when we finally close this one out."

Grissom just nodded in agreement as they walked past the front desk.

"Hey Grissom," he heard Warrick call from up ahead. "I thought you said Nick was sleeping in your office 'til we got back?"

Grissom exchanged a look with Catherine. Nick was forever a "pleaser" -- always trying to overcome his self-imposed stigma of inferiority. He had nothing to prove – his intelligence and determination always spoke for itself. Grissom wished Nick realized that nothing would make the supervisor happier than seeing him take some well-needed rest and forget about work for a little while.

"I knew I should have bolted my office door shut. He's probably mulling over his fibers report again. Check Layout or Trace."

"He's not in Trace or—"

Warrick was cut off by Archie coming out of AV and flagging him down. "Hey Warrick, Grissom. Nick left about an hour ago. He asked that new receptionist to take him home. I told him you'd call."

"He what?" Warrick sounded as incredulous as Grissom felt.

"I saw him walking out of here, leaning on that woman from the front desk… can't remember her name. But anyway, he looked like hell. I mean it— there is no way he could have made it outside on his own. I asked if they needed help, and she said no, that Nick asked her to take him home."

Grissom remained silent, pondering this latest unexpected development while Warrick opted to verbalize his feelings, trying to sort out Nick's logic. "I can't believe he'd do that. He must have been really hurting to be that desperate. He knew we were coming back soon."

The tall CSI pulled out his cell phone and hit a familiar speed dial. He paced around impatiently, rubbing his forehead with the heel of one hand as the other held fast onto the phone.

"Nick, it's me. Pick up, buddy." Pause. "Alright, well if you get this message I'll be over in a few. Just put on some pants, will ya?" Warrick snapped the phone shut and dug his keys from his jeans pocket. "Ok. I'm going over there."

"Call us after you talk with him, please."

"Will do."

Juliette drove leisurely past the rows of cookie-cutter suburban houses. Street lamps slightly illuminated the driveways, revealing minivans, basketball hoops and scattered toys. She noticed a baseball glove leaning against the front step of a house. In her mind's eye, she saw a father teaching his son how to throw the perfect curve ball; then saw the son excitedly running inside to tell his mother what he'd just learned.

Before the tear could fall from her eye, she remembered her vow. I'll make you proud, Douglas.

Pulling into the driveway of a familiar two-bedroom ranch, she cut the engine and considered the evening's events. Nick had deteriorated a lot faster than she'd anticipated. It was almost a spur-of-the-moment decision to start the next, er... phase. She hoped that AV tech wasn't too suspicious of her, but hell, they'd all find out soon enough. To be honest, she was getting rather impatient at Grissom's apparent lack of creativity in interpreting her clues. Wasn't this guy notorious for pulling theories out of his own ass? How was Douglas so patient in toying with him all those months? She supposed Willows was probably keeping him grounded, but there's no way this last clue would get by him. Not with the gift she supplied him. Then, she knew, the real game was on.

Speaking of the real game.

She turned her attention to the unconscious form across her back seat. She didn't think he was in any condition to run off on her, but the man was more cut than a Chinese gymnast, so far be it from her to underestimate a sick man's strength and determination. She reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a pair of authentic police handcuffs that she found in one of Doug's boxes of random junk. She grabbed Nick's arms and brought them to his front, snapping the cuffs around his wrists and almost wincing at the heat radiating off his body. Damn. She hoped he wouldn't die just yet. Maybe she should have used something less potent. No matter, she mused. It would all turn out the same anyway.

Glancing at her watch, she turned back around and opened up her door. Grissom and his team were due back soon. She had to get moving.

Pulling a house key from her purse, Juliette unlocked the front door and walked inside. She moved directly to her son's room; he was visiting her sister's family this week. Playing with his cousin Jeffery was the only thing that made Craig happy these days. She took in all the trinkets, mementos, and toys strewn around the room in a way that only a twelve-year-old could muster. She hoped… she hoped he would understand. He had to. Her son deserved to be around a real family all the time. Something she couldn't provide now. Or ever again.

Walking back through the living room, she stopped at the computer and printed off the pre-prepared note. Once the deskjet spat out the finished document, she grabbed it and walked to the kitchen table where a familiar object rested. It was as precious to her as a family heirloom, and in some ways it was one. And now it would haunt the man who haunted her. She arranged the piece of paper and the object to her liking and walked back towards the front door, stopping only to lightly touch the lone family photo hanging in the hallway.

It was the only way.

She got back in the car, started the engine, and turned around to spare a glance at the sick criminalist. He didn't appear to have moved from the spot she left him. She reached down and touched two fingers to the side of his sweaty neck and felt a rapid, albeit thready pulse. Before she could turn back around, his eyes fluttered and opened, staring at her groggily.

"Hello, Nick," she smiled sweetly. "Boy, you don't look so good."

He finally gave a shaky glance down to his cuffed hands. "Wh…"

Juliette figured he wasted all his adrenaline getting from the lab to the car, but it appeared he had more to spare. She watched calmly as he struggled to sit up, pulling fruitlessly at his cuffed hands. His legs flailed awkwardly and kicked against the back of her seat. "s'goin on … why…"

Jeez. The last thing she needed was him kicking out a window after she started driving. She'd been drugging him for days and he was still putting up half a fight?

"Christ almighty, you have the constitution of a bull elephant," she muttered, grabbing the CSI's gun from its place on the front passenger seat. She'd thought he'd ingested enough to be pretty incapacitated, but then again she wasn't a scientist. Still though… judging by the way he looked now, if she gave him any more he'd probably kick it. And too early.

Time to improvise. She looked into his glazed eyes for a brief moment before swiftly bringing the gun down on the side of his head. He crumpled back onto the seat with a soft thump, blood running down his face.

The girls at the country club always said she had a killer forehand.

Grissom was making his way to the DNA lab when his cell phone started ringing. He stopped and unclipped it from his belt, pausing to glance at the caller ID. Warrick.

He answered without pretense. "How is he?"

The notoriously cool CSI's voice betrayed his panic. "I don't know. He's not here."

Grissom felt like one of those old cartoon characters doing an overly-dramatic double-take. "What?"

"I don't know, I, I looked everywhere. He's not here. This place hasn't been touched."

Grissom pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to figure out a way to calm the other man without revealing his own worries.

"Okay. Archie said Nick looked like the living dead. Maybe he asked to go to a hospital instead."

"Come on – this is Nick." Grissom held the phone to his ear, taking in Warrick's words as he entered the DNA lab. "He would rather root against the Cowboys."

"Well, if he felt bad enough to ask for a ride home, maybe he was desperate enough for a doctor. Or maybe she convinced him."

"Griss, we hardly even know this woman. Can't you get her cell out of personnel or something?"

"I'm already on it. Why don't you get over to Desert Palms right now and see if he's there. Don't waste time calling – your badge will speak louder. Call me as soon as you know something."

"Yeah." Warrick hung up without another word.

He closed the phone and approached the table where David Hodges was cleaning up. "Hodges. I need you to drop whatever you're doing and go to the personnel office and look up the stats on our newest receptionist, Juliette… I think her last name is Ross. But find her address, phone numbers, what kind of car she drives…" he trailed off, knowing Hodges probably had guessed the reason for his inquiry.

"You got it."

Catherine poked her head in the door.

"Hey. Walk with me." She was holding something behind her back. "Did Warrick call?"

"Yeah, he said Nick isn't home."

"What?"

"I don't know. He's going over to Desert Palms now to see if he's there. No one is picking up on his cell."

"Do we have the cell number of Receptionist Nursemaid?"

"Hodges is getting it for me." He looked down at the way her arm hung somewhat awkwardly behind her right side. "Catherine, if something besides the whereabouts of our guy is on your mind, you best let me know."

She bit her lip and handed him a small object. "This time it was in my mail. I didn't check it until just now."

Grissom said nothing, his mind already spinning.

This time, instead of a postcard, a simple piece of cardstock rested inside of a standard mail envelope. Grissom snapped on a glove and pulled it out, willing his hand not to shake. His brow furrowed as he read the scrawled message. "'Your friend seems stressed. Try Yoga'," he paused and looked up at Catherine, then read the remainder of the message. "'It's Graveyard Shift. Do you know where your children are?'"

Grissom glanced at her, then spun on his heel and walked off without a word.

"Hey!" she called after him. "Where are you going?"

He didn't answer; instead, he disappeared into his office, re-emerging seconds later armed with the other four postcards and a jar of Red Creeper. The entomologist made a beeline for the Print Lab.

He heard Catherine catch up to him from behind. "Well at least let me help you!"

They spread out the first four cards in order of arrival, with the piece of cardstock at the end of the line. He studied them for a minute before Catherine finally spoke.

"The envelope was self-adhesive… probably won't get DNA off it."

He nodded and opened up his jar of self-concocted serious print powder. "I'm starting with the last one first."

Just as he dipped the brush into the powder, Sara entered the lab with Greg following close behind. Apparently news travels at a record pace these days.

"We heard."

Grissom spoke evenly, leaving no room for debate. "And we've got it covered."

Despite his words, he saw Sara move next to him, and then felt her hand gently cover his. He looked up, annoyed, but she spoke before he could say anything. "I know you want to pull out all the big guns," she said, her eyes flicking to the Red Creeper, "but you'll get more off cardboard if you fume it."

Wow. She was right. He couldn't believe his carelessness; it was the rare moment when his emotions were beating his logic in the perpetual race of his mind. He looked at Sara: his eyes reflecting his thanks, and her eyes returning her unwavering support. He really did have the best team in the world.

Grissom picked up the cardstock in a gloved hand and clipped it inside the top of the fume tank. He used his hand to wave off fumes that were billowing out of the top, waiting to see what would emerge on the card.

Catherine moved around to the other side of the table and peered intently into the tank. "Looks like a few smudges and one index right in the center."

He felt his heart race uncharacteristically. Collecting and processing evidence had forever been his aura of calm – when evidence spoke to him, it quenched his inquisitive nature like a desert spring. Right now though, he only felt a constant state of anxiousness. It was hard not to keep retreating to his Millander theory, but he still was aghast to its possibility. Grissom was certainly someone who lived for the present, but that case, over the course of years, was still one that haunted his steps.

Sara must have sensed his wandering mind and proceeded to transfer the print to film. By the time he re-emerged from his thoughts, she had already finished..

"Okay, ready."

He exchanged a look with Catherine and watched as she took the film from Sara's hand. "Let me run it." She keyed in a few details and the database began searching for a match.

Sara stood up and crossed her arms, looking at the evidence on the table. "Grissom, what is it about these postcards that has you so frazzled? It's probably just a prank," She shook her head. "I haven't seen you this worked up since the Paul Millander case."

As if on cue, the computer beeped, signaling a successful search.

Sara looked over at them expectantly.

Grissom squinted at the screen.

Catherine's face drained of color.

Greg seemed to choke on his own saliva. "Uh, funny you should mention that, Sara."

"What?" She moved around to join the rest of them at the computer monitor.

Grissom's eyes were practically boring holes into the screen. The blinking "match" cursor and its subsequent results taunted him like a boorish fan in the 14th row of a basketball game: close enough to hear, yet so unreachable. So unavoidable. Messing with the player's heads and knowing there's nothing they can do about it.

Why why why… how...

He continued his painful countenance as his colleagues exchanged bewildered exclamations around him. Their voices sounded far away, like at the end of a long tunnel of his consciousness.

"Oh my God."

"The print says it's a match to Paul Millander!"

"I know what it says, Catherine, it's right in front of us."

"Does someone want to tell me how a dead guy's prints landed on your mail?"

"Who would have access to…"

"His mother is dead. He's dead."

"Does anyone else know details about his case? Did he have any other family?"

"Grissom, what in the…"

Family. Family. Family. Oh God. He had two families.

"GRISSOM!"

He blinked and looked up at his colleagues. Before he could answer their questioning stares, Hodges breezed into the room holding a file folder.

"Hey Boss." He'd almost forgotten about their other situation, he realized somewhat guiltily. The lab tech tossed the folder onto the table and took in all of the stunned expressions of the room. He spoke almost smugly. "Aaah, get another piece of mail, did ya?"

Grissom had learned long ago to ignore Hodges' tactlessness.

"Did you get a number?"

"Yeah. You know, I saw her talking to Nick a lot this week. I swear that guy could attract a moldy piece of bread without even trying."

Catherine shot him a look. "I'm sure she's a perfectly kind woman, David. Get a grip." She picked up Grissom's phone. "I'll do it."

She dialed the cell number and sighed after apparently reaching her voicemail.

"Hello, this is Catherine Willows. We're trying to get a hold of Nick, so please call me back at the lab when you get this message. Thank you."

Family. Family. Family.

Grissom was sucked back into the throes of his mind, which suddenly flashed to a quaint house in a small town. A housewife teasingly admonishing her husband for his personal hobbies. A son putting together a school safety kit. A dinner table set for three – and a guest – with light conversation and home-cooked food. A slice of life that could be placed into any idealistic '50s television program.

Uh, I have to get back to my lab right away. I'm sorry. Thank you for a lovely dinner, Mrs. Mason.

But, he considered, there's no way she'd be pressed to…

Grissom shook his head and tried pulling himself back to the present – they still didn't know where Nick was -- he could deal with these prints after they made sure Nick was alright. He casually glanced down at the receptionist's personnel file, still opened to the page with her contact information where Hodges had left it.

Wait.

That said…

He read it again. He couldn't believe what he was seeing.

Name: Juliette M. Ross. Marital Status: Widowed. Birthplace: Mulberry, NV. Past addresses…

"Greg. Pull up the Clark County Auditors website." The lab tech looked at him quizzically. "I need a list of the current and former property owners of 21 Roseleaf Ave., Mulberry."

"But what about the pri—"

"Just do it. Please."

Greg hopped onto the nearest computer and the supervisor went back to studying the file, purposely ignoring the look he was sure Catherine was giving him. Dependents: 1 son – adopted 8/12/92. The similarities were just too coincidental. How could…

Greg interrupted his train of thought. "Currently registered to a Robert Hill. Sold about six months ago. Only one former owner, D. P. Mason."

Mason. Doug Mason. Mrs. Mason. She never fully introduced herself.

He barely heard the shrill ring of his phone, which Catherine promptly answered.

"Warrick?" She paused, listening. "Are you sure? Just—okay. Get back here right away."

Rain boots. Masonic Exhibit. Family vacation.

He sunk deeper into his thoughts, not really acknowledging Catherine and Sara's tense exchange.

"Warrick said Nick's not at the hospital."

"God. Then where…"

"Gil! Did you hear what I said?"

Family. Sandbox. Children.

Mrs. Mason. Widow. Family.

The last clue...

'It's Graveyard Shift. Do you know where your children are?'

Nick.

Nick's not at the hospital.

He looked down at the file photo attached to the folder, thinking back to the small talk and exchanges of pleasantries during the past few months. That face. He knew it. Different. Made-over, but… how could he miss it before…


He'd never forget that dinner.

Nick.

"Gil! Snap out of it!"

He felt his heart plummet, and had to swallow before finding his voice again.

He finally met Catherine's eyes. "We have a serious problem."

TBC