Requital 6 of ?
Hey kids. Sorry for the delay. Thanks for the feedback and remember that it pays my gas bill.
Notes 'n stuff in Ch. 1.
"Come on!"
He swore the light had been red for at least eight minutes.
Jim Brass was not a patient man. In fact, the virtue of patience was conspicuously lacking in the amiable qualities of any typical New Jersey native. After all, he recalled, half the time cars there aren't even allowed to turn left. The state legislators would say that's because left turns are dangerous, and this law prevented accidents. But any native knows better – people there are just too damn tired of waiting at lights.
God, he missed Jersey sometimes.
He finally got moving again and within a few minutes was pulling into the CSI parking lot. Parking up near the door, Brass cut the engine and reached for his coffee – probably long cold by now. But before he could test its potency, his cell phone went off.
Brass glanced at the caller ID. Grissom.
He got out of the cruiser and flipped open his phone. "Tell me you've got a roach as your special witness in the double."
Grissom sounded like he was in no mood for games. "Brass. I need you to get a unit over to 853 Arbor Trace right now. Send whoev—"
"Gil," he interrupted, pulling open the front door. "I'm walking into CSI as we speak; what in the hell—"
He trailed off as a very flustered Warrick Brown barreled past him into the building without apology. Before he could spare a thought to Warrick's deal, he looked down the hall and was surprised to see a gang of – angry? worried? – criminalists hustling his way. Brass put up his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, I know I called you all back to the scene, but there's no need to lynch a guy."
The comment seemed lost on those who approached. He decided it was probably better just to wait and see what all the commotion was and ask questions later.
Grissom placed his hand on the back of the detective, urging him to move towards the door again. As the entomologist explained the situation, Brass ruefully wondered how Paul Millander was still kicking their asses after 4 years. While Grissom finished telling the final known details, the Captain spared a glance at Nick's partner and found him, predictably, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. Catherine looked disturbingly pale, and Sara appeared to be on the verge of tears. This absolutely had to end well.
He pulled out his phone and radioed to the nearest patrol on duty.
"Hey. We've got a helluva 427."
Brass rattled off the address and other details to the patrol. As he finished up, David Hodges jogged up to the group and was most certainly going to pop a valve if forced to remain silent any longer. After being ignored by Grissom for a few beats, he finally spoke.
"Hey, uh, Boss…"
Grissom gave him an exasperated look. "What is it, Hodges?"
"I told you I saw, uh, her hanging around Nick a lot this past week. Well the other night before he left I saw her give him something, I guess to help with his flu," Grissom and Brass exchanged a harsh look. "I dunno, it looked like soup or something, but I bet…"
Grissom ran a hand over his bearded chin. "That Nick's illness isn't coincidental. Or accidental."
Brass bit back a smirk, despite the seriousness of the situation. He knew Hodges was the town gossip, and maybe it wasn't such a bad thing this time. His eyes moved back to the supervisor. Grissom's face held a rare front of guilt. Guilt at not figuring the situation out sooner, guilt at Nick being apparently drugged, guilt at Nick being taken, guilt at having the team's psyche screwed with again… probably all of the above.
Warrick let out a sudden groan, remembering. "Yeah. I was over there… I saw it on Nick's kitchen counter – half-eaten."
Grissom didn't waste time with hearing the details. "Hodges, you and Greg get over to Nick's place and pick up the leftovers. It won't help us find him any faster but at least we may know what we're dealing with." Grissom seemed to have said the last line more to himself, as Warrick took Nick's key off his ring and tossed it to the lab tech.
As they retreated out the door, Brass knew the situation had just gone from bad to inconceivable. It was enough that Nick was held at the whim of a likely psychotic woman, but now it would be harder to count on the young CSI's typical quick mind and resourcefulness in helping the team locate him. Being so sick meant he probably couldn't help himself… then again, Brass knew Nick Stokes wasn't easily underestimated.
"We're wasting time. Let's go." Warrick started for the parking lot. "I'll drive."
Brass knew how this could end up – better to speak up now. "'Rick! Wait!" He was given an icy glare in response.
The detective turned to address the collective graveyard shift.
"Remember you can't just go barreling in there. We're…" he paused, licking his lips. "We're all worried about Nicky. But just let us do our jobs first."
A few slight nods of agreement and they were heading for the Denalis.
Brass paused briefly to check his magazine. Full. He replaced the gun in its holster. If she laid another finger on that kid, Brass swore, he'd show her just how Jersey handled turnpike trash.
Somewhere, there was a distant humming. It was almost peaceful, like the first time he visited Hoover Dam. The impressiveness of the sight had awed him into silence, and the only sound filling his ears was the hum of electricity.
But this was something different.
Just as Nick realized the sound came from the high-speed glide of wheels on pavement, the force of his headache slammed him full-on. Swallowing convulsively, he tried to get his bearings, but only received a stab of pain in response. Not daring to open his eyes just yet, he could only guess at what the slightly irritating, sticky feeling was on the side of his face. Maybe he could just lift up an arm and swipe it off—
Oh.
He really thought he'd hallucinated those handcuffs, but the metal biting into the skin of his wrists proved otherwise… and he guessed that meant he hadn't hallucinated the other things, either. Great.
"Nick?"
Oh no. This had to be some psychotic side effect of his illness. There's absolutely no way he was—
"Nicky. Come on now. I know you're awake by the change in your breathing."
But that would mean she wasn't taking him to—
"It went from shallow and ragged to really shallow and ragged."
Was it his imagination that she actually sounded smug about his current well-being? He decided to find out for himself. Squinting through the blurry haze that served as his vision for the time being, he saw a familiar shape driving the sedan.
"Wh…"
"What's that, Nick? Not feeling so great, hmmm. Well don't worry; eventually you won't feel a thing."
Normally he might have considered the irony of her C-horror movie clichéd villain line, but the overwhelming pain of his body told him this was all too real. What in the hell is going on?
"I got a little bored waiting around for your boss to interpret my postcards, so I decided to speed up the process."
Wait. She was the one sending Griss that mail? Nick swallowed thickly and tried to concentrate on what she was saying. She rambled on about things Grissom had done and why she wanted to get back at him. It became increasingly hard for him to focus on her words. They started running together in an imperceptible jumble to Nick's ears. But he had figure out what she was planning. If Grissom was in danger, he'd do whatever he could to keep him out of it.
"Who… are you…" He finally strung together a sentence, but even that was a monumental effort.
"Nick! You disappoint me. Of all the people, I certainly thought you'd have it figured out by now. You're a very perceptive guy. Doesn't your boss ever tell you that?" She paused, probably waiting for some kind of reaction, but she received none. "Well he's going to wish he did. Maybe it'll, I don't know… eat away at him for years to come, hmmm?"
Nick absently tugged on his cuffed hands but remained silent.
"The death of Douglas Mason will not be in vain, Nick. I swear to God it won't."
It clicked then. As she continued mumbling about her seemingly palpable hatred of his boss, Nick's mind connected back to a corner of cases he thought had closed off for good. If Paul Millander's – Judge Mason's – widowed wife was out for revenge, there was no way this could end easily. Nick wanted to chastise himself for being so open to her this past week, but realized that was just who he was – just like who he was may be his only way of figuring an exit strategy from this mess. He was a resourceful guy. He could think of a—
God. He squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as he could and tried not to cry out as another ache ripped through his body. This complicated matters.
"What do you think, Nick? You wanna take odds on your boss finding us soon? I'm sure that good for nothing…"
Nick hardly heard the rest of her ramblings. She was talking more to herself now, anyway, mumbling like a drunken zombie.
Sickened by her venomous diatribe, he hoped Grissom wouldn't fall into her traps. Then he surrendered to oblivion once more.
Gil Grissom wasn't prone to telegraphing his emotions. Right now, to an outside observer, he probably seemed no more worked up than one became riding to 7-Eleven. Even Warrick, whose white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel betrayed his current state of mind, probably had no idea how on edge the supervisor was. The Paul Millander case caused him all kinds of hell for the better part of two years. It was bad enough having been played so meticulously by that man, but now one of his guys was in the middle of it. This thing… with the wife. It came completely out of left field… odd, because left field is usually where Grissom lived. No one else at the lab had ever seen Mrs. Mason… it was very much his fault for not catching what was so painfully obvious to him now.
Coming back out of his thoughts, Grissom noticed that they were nearing Mrs. Mason's house, or at least the address she provided on the information sheet. Police lights flashed in stark relief to the dark night sky.
He and Warrick exchanged a brief look before getting out. Closing the door of the Denali, he was immediately intercepted by Brass.
"Not a peep comin' from inside." He nudged with his shoulder and pulled out his gun. "Let's go in."
Grissom and Warrick both unholstered their weapons and moved behind the row of cops.
"Las Vegas Police!" Brass shouted after pounding on the door. No answer.
The unit busted down the locked door and moved inside. They efficiently moved throughout the house looking for signs of the two missing parties. Grissom moved slowly behind them, stopping to look at the lone photograph hanging in the hallway.
It was a family portrait – Paul Millander as Judge Mason, Mrs. Mason, and their son Craig. She looked as the supervisor remembered her from the dinner invite: fair-haired and stereotypically simple. It was a sharp contrast to the stylish, dark look she sported now. A fine film of dust covered the photo except for a thin line running through the middle, as if someone had gently traced a finger over the faces in a nostalgic gesture.
He vaguely heard the directive shouts of the officers around him as they clamored through the house.
"Gil, they're not here."
He looked up at Brass, but found his gaze traveling over the Captain's shoulder, down the hall to the kitchen table. Grissom knew they weren't in the house – there, sitting on the table, was all the proof he needed.
He elbowed his way past Brass, ignoring the other man's inquiries. Snapping on a glove, he picked up the agonizingly familiar rubber hand in disgust. "Here's our Millander print." He put the prop back on the table and noticed a folded piece of paper had fluttered to the floor.
Grissom and Brass exchanged a glance, and the supervisor quickly reached down and snagged the object. He straightened back up, looking over to his right and spying Warrick scanning through the browsing history and Internet logs of the old Dell in the corner. He turned the other direction and saw Catherine and Sara trying to get the voicemail to play on the phone. Grissom figured it was better this way – it was against him that this woman apparently held the king of all grudges – he could tackle this note alone. After unconsciously taking a deeper breath, he began to read.
It's about time you start showing your game, Dr. Grissom. It's bad enough your crime lab even let me get that job. Isn't there a bit of irony lurking in your less than stellar background checks?
But nevermind that, let's get back to you. You couldn't just leave us alone. You couldn't just eat at our table, enjoy our company, and then go back to your lab where you belonged. You saw how happy we were, how normal we were. So let me ask you this: was it worth it? Did you receive the same investigative closure as you get with other cases? Are you happy now?
It's been a slow and agonizing two years. Do you know what it's like having your family taken from you? Don't try and tell me you don't have one. You may be married to your job, but I've been watching you long enough to notice how your team functions. You're a family, even if your anti-social, independent nature screams against it. So let me tell you this. Even when a portion of your family is taken away… nothing is ever the same again. You'll find out soon enough, though. I bet you're wondering where your boy is. Just know that he's experiencing his own brand of "slow and agonizing."
Now it's time to follow the evidence. I trust you're proficient enough to find us soon, but then again you have been rather disappointing so far. I want you to be able to join us so that I can show you just how important family is to me. I've been waiting a long time for this.
Try not to let me down, yeah? God knows you've already let Nick down.
He let the note fall from his hand and said nothing.
TBC, and hopefully much faster this time.