Author Note: I was never really satisfied with this story, feeling like I wrote a "whump for the sake of itself" fic, and I went back through, some five or years later, and did some editing and tweaking and am actually okay with what this story ended up being. I have done a little rearranging, and the 18 chapters I had before are now 11. Now, enjoy my token Nigel Crane returns fic!
Chapter One
He watched the doctor carefully, wary of reactions to some of the answers he'd provided. There was no reason to worry, of course. His answers were well thought out, calculated. Rehearsed. He'd been here long enough, watched and listened well enough to know exactly what to say to get out.
The doctor smiled and folded his hands on top of the overstuffed file on the desktop in front of him.
Good sign.
"Well, the results of your tests have come back, and they are outstanding. I really couldn't be prouder of you."
More like proud of yourself, he thought.
"You've come a long way," the doctor continued.
He put on his best smile for the doctor, who was sufficiently younger than himself. "I feel like I've come a long way," he said, with as much sincerity as he could muster.
He signed the required paperwork, committing to weekly counseling sessions and check-ups, and thanked the doctor, whose name he couldn't remember and couldn't care less to.
Nigel walked out of the rehabilitation facility in a completely different manner than when he'd walked in. No cops, no handcuffs. Just him. A taxi out front, not a police cruiser. An apartment waiting for him, not a suffocating cell. It was nice to know.
It was nice to know how easy it was.
The sun was just starting to set and while there was a bite in the air, it wasn't cold enough to keep the guys off of the court. It hardly ever was.
"Just say it, man. White men can jump."
Warrick Brown held the worn basketball against his body and simply sighed, letting Nick savor his narrow victory.
The two were on their way back to Warrick's place from the public basketball court down the street. The court was a popular one in the otherwise quiet neighborhood, and they'd participated in a little two-on-two with a couple of seniors from the nearby high school before getting down to business themselves. Warrick had secured quite a nice lead for himself before Nick started to make some lucky shots.
Encouraged by his friend's silence, Nick Stokes grinned and mocked a jump shot. "Nothing but net," he said. "It was beautiful."
Warrick rolled his eyes and threw the basketball at his friend.
Nick caught it inches from his face and laughed. "Talk about a sore loser."
Warrick smirked. "Yeah, speaking of. You know you still owe me a buck from Thanksgiving? Broncos and Cowboys?"
Nick cocked his head like he was trying to remember, but it was a bad show. "I'm pretty sure it was only twenty."
"I'm pretty sure you're full of it," Warrick said with a smile as he trotted up the walkway to his front door.
Nick followed, grumbling about the football game.
When Warrick pulled open the door he was greeted with the new and often recurring aroma of a home-cooked meal, something he was really getting used to. With their work schedules it wasn't often that it was dinner, but Tina even went to the lengths to make him a nice big breakfast sometimes when he got home in the mornings.
Nick let out a low whistle. "You went to work," he said in an awestruck voice.
Tina leaned her head out of the open door into the kitchen and grinned at the compliment. She jabbed a wooden spoon in Warrick's direction. "Don't get used to this."
"Too late." He took a few long strides across the living room and gave her a big kiss.
Tina smiled again and pulled herself back into the kitchen. "Did Mr. Grissom get ahold of you?" she asked.
"What are you talking about?" Warrick asked. He and Nick flopped onto the couch and began a wordless argument over control of the remote. There was no way Nick was going to win, not in Warrick's house.
"He called looking for you. Said that he was going to try your cell."
Warrick frowned and dug into his pocket. Nick took advantage of the distraction and snatched the remote out of his other hand. Warrick glared and then turned to his phone. Oops. The screen read "4 missed calls."
"Must've accidentally turned off my ringer," Warrick said, flipping open the phone to call Grissom back. He turned to Nick. "Did he try to call you?"
Nick patted down his own pockets and frowned. "Damn. Must've lost it back at the court."
"Wouldn't surprise me, the way you two push each other around," Tina's voice came from the next room.
Nick sighed and pulled himself up off of the couch. "I guess I'll go see if I can find it."
Warrick nodded. "Yeah. And I'll call Gris back."
As Nick left the small house, Warrick punched in the speed-dial to Grissom's cell. The supervisor answered almost before it started ringing.
"Grissom."
Warrick almost laughed. The man had to know from the caller ID that it was Warrick calling, and was still just so…Grissom. "Hey, it's me. Sorry I didn't get your call, I accidentally turned the ringer off."
"You're forgiven. I know it's supposed to be your night off, but I need you. Nicky, too."
Warrick sighed. He'd had a feeling. No relaxing night off for him. Damn, and he'd had a few things planned...Tina was going to be pissed. "Alright. I'll get him and we'll be right in."
"Thanks, Warrick."
"You bet." He hung up and steeled himself for telling Tina. He could imagine see her disappointed expression well, as he'd already been cause for it more than he would like during their marriage thus far. When he turned around, however, her face held nothing but a sympathetic smile.
"Go on," she said. "Go do what you do best."
Warrick smiled. "I don't deserve you."
"No," she answered, moving back to finish cooking the now for-one dinner. "But you can try to make it up to me later."
Nick jogged back down the street to the court. He wasn't in a huge hurry, as the park had been deserted by the time they'd left, but he wasn't taking his sweet time, either. That was an embarrassingly expensive phone, and with his work schedule it was difficult to find a convenient time to get to the store to replace the thing.
The sun was almost fully set, and the lights lining the court had turned on. Nick shook his head, frustrated. It was going to be even harder to find his phone in the dark. He scanned the scuffed surface of the court, hoping that the dim light would catch the surface his phone and reflect back at him, but saw nothing.
Nick sighed and walked over to the rickety benches along the edge of the court. He knelt down and groped under each one, but came up with nothing.
"Damn it," he said, softly but angry enough. One of the kids had probably taken off with it.
Nick really didn't want to give up so quickly, but it was getting darker by the minute. He put his hands on his hips and frowned, taking in the whole of the court. When his eyes landed on the very artistically and tastefully decorated pay phone in the corner, a light bulb went on in his head.
He fished around in his pocket and victoriously came up with a quarter, punched in his cell number and looked anxiously around, not picking up the ring of his phone. When he heard himself asking to leave a message, Nick hung up the chipped receiver, slamming it slightly.
"Damn it," he swore again, louder this time. With a shake of his head, he turned and started back for Warrick's house, kicking an empty Coke can in the street on his way.
It was so much easier to watch people in the dark. Light and shadows, dark and darker – it all seemed to meld together so nicely. Natural concealment. Now, you see me…now, you don't.
He'd been nervous while the sun was still out. Low, but it was still light, and light gave you sight, and sight meant that you were exposed to someone. In the dark, they were exposed to him. In the dark, he was in control.
The dark made everything easier. It was easier for you to see them, but near impossible for them to see you.
He didn't see you.
Easier to get in, easier to get out. Easier to distract.
"You didn't see me," he whispered to no one, only the cool night air, and clutched the thin cell phone tighter in his hand.
Now came the waiting. He'd done so much waiting already, the prospect of more didn't even faze him. It might have made a lesser man impatient and ready to jump, but not him. Waiting was cool; he had other things to keep himself busy. Always did find ways to keep busy. Found new places to stay. Made new friends.
And it was all easier in the dark.
A giggle started in the back of his throat, and Nigel couldn't hold it in any longer. He wasn't the one in the dark.
They were.
Gil Grissom got the call the next morning, the one he'd been dreading for four years. And it came days later than it should have.
He thought he'd told these goddamned "doctors" that he wanted to be kept informed. That he wanted to know what happened, as it happened. He wanted to be the first to know. He wanted to make sure that, if this moment ever came, he was the one who told Nick. He didn't want to risk it slipping unsympathetically from some gossiper's cursed mouth.
He hung up the phone, furious, and looked to Catherine, shifting anxiously from foot to foot on the other side of his desk.
"What was that about?" she asked as casually as she could, but her anxiety was thinly veiled.
Gil didn't answer, he just stared at her.
"When was he released?" Gil gritted out, stalking down the sterile white halls after a doctor who seemed much too young to have the power to accomplish what he so easily had.
"Three days ago," the doctor, Kendall, replied. His dry, professional tone betrayed no acknowledgement for the remote possibility he'd done something wrong.
"And why wasn't I informed until this morning?" Gil could hardly suppress his anger. He'd been keeping tabs on this man for years, had seen how crazy he was and for more than one reason had no desire to see him anywhere than behind cold, iron bars.
The judge had seen it differently. Gil had to admit, the district attorney had made quite the argument, considering what he had to work with. He'd delivered the ideal results for his client. They just weren't so ideal for the others involved.
Gil didn't think Nick had ever gotten used to the knowledge that Crane wasn't in prison, but they had told him numerous times there was no way the man was ever going to be stepping out of that facility without a police escort and days' worth of warning.
They were wrong.
Doctor Kendall moved into a small office and after allowing Gil to pass, shut the door. He raised a hand. "I can tell that you're upset, Mr. Grissom."
Gil raised his eyebrows, noticing how effortlessly the doctor avoided his question.
"You don't need to be. We're doing a good thing here," the doctor said, smiling, pleased with himself.
To Gil, he sounded young and naïve. He shook his head, disgusted.
Doctor Kendall didn't seem to notice. "We spend an extreme amount of time with our patients, working to reincorporate them into society," he continued.
"And what standards do you use to decide that these criminals are capable of being reincorporated."
Doctor Kendall crossed his arms defensively. "Our patients go through several weeks of tests and test scenarios with some of the most qualified psychologists in the area to ensure they are in fact cured."
"And how do you follow up on these treatments?" Gil's growing detest for the man was hopefully evident in the sarcasm with which he spat the word.
"Weekly counseling sessions," the doctor answered curtly.
Gil shook his head. "You really believe counseling can take the murderer out of a man?"
"It has."
Gil couldn't keep his anger in check any longer. "How can you be sure? Some of these people don't belong back in society," he said loudly, pounding his fist on the desk for emphasis. His many years on the job had let him see the lengths to which people went to destroy each other. He had seen the horrific scenes that had come from the twisted minds of some of those kept behind the very doors of this facility.
The young doctor frowned. "It's a matter of opinion," he said stiffly. "Mr. Crane made a lot of progress here." Doctor Kendall moved around the office and sat at his desk.
"And what about the victims?" Gil exploded. "Or their families? Do you even think about the repercussions of letting some of these people out? They're criminals and they belong in prison!"
Kendall sat forward in his chair. "The patients here were not of a sound mind when they committed the crimes they were accused of. Once we purge their minds and personalities of the unstable mental capacities, they are just like you and me."
"I've never killed anyone," Gil said blandly.
"And neither has he," Kendall answered in the same tone.
Gil gaped at the doctor and shook his head.
Doctor Kendall raised his chin. "All due respect, Mr. Grissom, but I am the one with the medical degree."
"And all due respect, Dr. Kendall," Gil replied softly, "but at the moment, that doesn't mean a damn thing to me."
To be continued...