Chapter Six

"You should have let me drive," Sara said, staring out of the windshield.

Greg glanced sideways at her and pressed only slightly harder on the accelerator. "We're not going to do Nick any good wrapped around a telephone pole, Sara."

She sighed, and brought her hand up to brush a few stray hairs from her face. She was trying to keep as cool as she could but inside, she was a mess.

The two had been processing the scene they'd been sent to, maybe banished to, in near total silence. As soon as Sara's phone rang and she saw Grissom's name on the screen…she had known something was wrong.

Sara's heart caught in her throat when she saw the street sign announcing their arrival at Nick's neighborhood. She was happy Grissom had sent her here as opposed to Warrick's house or Crane's apartment. She didn't know how she would handle herself there if they had to process the evidence indicating Nick had been hurt.

Greg steered the SUV to the curb and pulled to a stop behind the police cruiser. The officer came around to the vehicle to meet them.

"Either of you guys have a key?" he asked. His tone was solemn.

Greg nodded and held out his key ring. The officer took it and started for the front door while Sara and Greg pulled their kits from the back of the truck. Sara prayed she wouldn't need anything inside.

After the officer opened the door and confirmed that Nick's house was empty, the two CSIs entered. Sara didn't know if it was the gravity of the situation, but Nick's clean and usually comfortable living room now seemed empty and cold.

"What are we looking for, exactly?" Greg asked, pausing in the doorway.

Sara turned and looked at him. "I don't know. I guess anything that would suggest Crane was…up to something." She didn't know a better way to put it. She didn't want to voice the possibility that Crane had been watching Nick again.

Greg's eyes went to the ceiling. "You think we should…" he gestured to the ceiling.

Sara bit her lip. She really didn't want to. "Yeah, probably the first place we should check."

Greg nodded. "Okay." But he didn't move.

"Greg?"

"Yeah." He took a stiff step into the house and started down the short hall to the bedrooms. "Attic access is…" he pointed into a room on the right side.

Sara nodded. "Yeah, I think."

There wasn't any thinking involved. She remembered the layout perfectly, knew exactly where the attic was. She couldn't get the images of processing Nick's house four years ago out of her head, couldn't believe she was here doing it all over again.

Greg went into the room and Sara heard him pull down the steps to get up into the attic. She looked around the neat living room. It was weird being there for the second time to process, and she didn't know where to start.

She solemnly pulled on a pair of latex gloves as she did a quick walkthrough of the small house, coming to an abrupt stop when she glanced in the bathroom. On the counter was an amber prescription bottle. Sara picked it up and read the label, and her eyes moved up to the medicine cabinet door. She opened it and her heart fell at the sight of a half a dozen other plastic bottles.

Greg appeared in the door and leaned on the frame. "There's nothing up there, thank God. What's that?"

Sara lifted the bottle in her hand. "I didn't even know he was still taking any of these."

"Maybe it's old," Greg suggested, but his tone betrayed that he didn't believe it.

Sara rotated the bottle so he could read the label. It had been refilled only the week before. Greg sighed and Sara gingerly set the bottle back down.

They moved back into the living room and Greg looked over things in the kitchen while Sara started randomly flipping through the mail on the table by the door. She picked it up and turned, something catching her eye across the room. The setting sun was coming through the slits in the blinds just enough to hit the bookshelf across the room and a glint flashed on the edge of a picture frame. A wooden picture frame.

Sara frowned and walked over the bookcase. Her mouth fell open when she picked up the picture and studied the frame.

"Grissom," Gil brought the phone to his ear without even looking to see who was calling. At the moment, it wasn't important.

"Grissom, you are not going to believe what I'm going to tell you."

"No, Sara," he answered, gaping at what was in front of him. The bedroom in Crane's apartment seemed perfectly normal, except for the huge bank of monitors that covered one wall. An image of Sara's face with a backdrop of Nick's living room filled one of the screens. "I think I will."

Warrick crouched next to his couch and brought a hand to rub his forehead. He'd been prepared to see his living room tossed. He wasn't ready for the sight of the bloodstain on his carpet.

Neither was Catherine. "Oh, God," she breathed from behind him.

Warrick reached out and swabbed the stain. "It could be nothing, Cath." He said it for no other reason than to try and comfort her. He was scared.

"Tina said he had a gun and he shot Nick, do you really think that this is nothing?" By the rising volume and pitch of her voice, Warrick could tell Catherine clearly was, too.

Warrick couldn't answer her. His eyes were focused on the wall behind the couch, and a spot on that wall.

Catherine's phone rang and she answered it, stepping back towards the front door, and Warrick went over to the wall. He pulled out a pair of tweezers and carefully extracted the bullet. He heard Catherine's footsteps returning behind him and slowly turned, holding up the bullet for her to see.

She closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them, they were sad and angry. "That was Gil. The bastard has cameras set up all over Nick's house."

Warrick's hand dropped to his side and he felt his own temper building up. "How did he manage that?"

Catherine shrugged, angry tears starting to fill her eyes. "I don't know. He was out of that hospital for three days before any of us knew about it."

Warrick slammed his hand onto the wall. "Son of a bitch," he said softly. "How the hell did he get that kind of equipment so fast?"

Catherine shook her head. She opened her mouth to answer but nothing came out.

Warrick turned back to the wall, leaning his head on it. "What's he trying to do?"

Nick groaned and brought a hand to his head, hissing as the action caused a sharp pain cutting through his side. He quickly pulled his hand away and frowned at the sticky substance on his fingers. Blood.

What in the hell... Nick groggily pulled himself into a sitting position, eliciting another stab of pain and he quickly put a hand to his side. He was somewhat surprised when he saw the dried blood already on his hand. He looked down at the stain on the side of his shirt and it hit him.

Crane had kidnapped him. Hit him. Shot him.

"Oh, God," he breathed.

"You're fine," a voice said. "It only grazed you."

Nick's head shot up, eyes darting around the space, his eyes trying to adjust to the dim lit, trying to take it in. It was too dark to get a good look; all he could see was the silhouette of a desk or table of some kind, and there he could make out the shape of the gun. He could also see the outline of the other person in the room. Seeing that person both pissed him off and scared the shit out of him.

For the moment, the anger decided to be the one to take over, giving Nick a rush of energy, and he swung around to face Nigel Crane, despite the pain it caused. "What in the hell is the matter with you?"

The words seemed to have the desired effect on Crane. He looked lost. "Come on, Nick," the man said in an innocent, almost pleading tone. He stepped forward out of the shadows of the small room. "I just wanted us to be friends."

The why in the hell did you shoot me? he thought furiously. Nick had to hold his hand to his side as he rose angrily and glared at the shorter man. "Then call on the phone. Knock on the fucking door and say 'hello'!" he yelled, bending slightly.

Nick was shaky and unsteady on his feet, but he couldn't help but smirk at the surprised, even hurt expression on Crane's face. That expression was all too quickly replaced with a show of anger that trumped his own.

Nick wasn't quick enough to move out of the way as Crane picked up the gun and took a couple big steps towards him. After the gun slammed into the side of his face, the smirk turned into a grimace.

He fell back on the couch. After the second hit, he began to rethink his words.

After everything went black, he didn't think about anything at all.

After Gil had ended the call with Sara, he turned to a horrorstruck Jim Brass, who had entered the room at some point during the short conversation, and shook his head in disgust. They'd been optimistic, hoping for the best…but this was not the best in any way, shape, or form.

Gil had told Sara about the bank of monitors, and she'd gone through Nick's house, finding the corresponding cameras. He could now see her saddened expression as she located a camera from somewhere on his kitchen counter. He watched as she bit her lip, looking into the lens. Her expression hardened and her hand disappeared over the screen and it went black.

Gil closed his eyes and sighed. "Any idea how he got out of here?"

"Yeah." Brass motioned for Gil to follow, and they went into the other bedroom.

Brass jerked a thumb to the open window. Gil frowned and crossed the small room. He leaned out the window and looked down at the rusty sliding ladder attached to the side of the building.

"Old building. With a fire escape."

Gil looked back sharply at Brass as the detective spoke.

Brass averted his eyes. "Didn't know about that."

Gil's eyes narrowed, but he didn't say anything. He pulled out his cell to update Catherine and left the room.

For the moment, actions on their part were restrained. Brass was in charge of the acting, and Grissom was in charge of the uncovering. Warrick would have much rather been working with Brass. Anything beat sitting in the conference room, listening to the constant buzz of rapid-fire conversing going on out in the halls.

They'd divided and searched, and now he, Grissom, Catherine, Sara, and Greg were left to share with each other their findings, each as horrible as the next.

"A fire escape," Catherine repeated in a dull voice.

Grissom nodded.

Warrick figured this bit of information had contributed to Brass's absence in the room. It was a major slip-up on his part. The lone officer watching the front of the building wouldn't have seen him leave that way, which was exactly what had happened.

All this did was add more fuel to the fiery anger growing with rapidly increasing speed inside Warrick. Sitting around talking was not going to help Nick. He wanted to get out there and do something. But that wasn't their job.

"I found five cameras," Sara said in a hollow voice. It was first she'd spoken since they entered the room.

"Yeah, they were pretty well hidden." Greg sat forward and spoke quickly, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "Bedroom, bathroom, living room, kitchen, and uh, one outside, by the front door."

"Did anyone figure out how he got them in there?" Grissom asked.

"Or got them, period?" Catherine added.

Greg looked at Sara, as if to see if she was willing to add any more to their discussion, but she only stared down at her lap, and so Greg looked up at the others again with an uneasy smile.

"Yeah," he said. "We talked to a couple of Nick's neighbors. 'Meter reader' was out a few days ago, apparently."

"But how did he get into the house?" Grissom asked with a frown.

Greg shrugged. "I guess we're assuming he's been watching Nick since he got out…probably found out where the spare key was hidden."

Now Warrick had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach to compliment the rising anger. He sat back in his chair and all eyes in the room were drawn to the movement. Even Sara looked up. It wasn't due to the simple fact he'd moved; it was now his turn to report on their findings at his house.

Warrick sighed. "Tina was right," he said, his voice nearly catching on the thought of this happening in his own home, with his wife there. "Cath and I found a bullet, and blood."

"DNA confirmed it was Nick's," Catherine added quietly.

No one spoke for a long moment. Warrick knew everyone was desperately thinking of something to say to comfort the others in the room, but apparently no one could think of anything.

"You found the bullet," Grissom said slowly, finally. "So if Nick was shot, it was a through and through. Maybe not too bad."

Everyone contemplated that for a moment, but the logic of the statement did little for Warrick's fried nerves. He needed to do something.

His eyes went automatically to the muted television set bolted to the corner of the room. "They put out a bulletin on Crane yet?"

Catherine nodded. "Yeah, and believe me, every available officer is out there looking for him, Warrick." Her voice was warm and soothing, but just as with Grissom's reliable logic, it failed to calm him.

"I sent the video equipment to Archie. He's going to trace the feed, see if it was sent anywhere besides the apartment." Once again, Grissom spoke, drawing everyone's attention back from their thoughts and to what they needed to be thinking of as a case. It was the only way they were going to get through it.

"And what do we do until then?" Greg asked, his eyes wide, obviously anxious and feeling a need for action, just like Warrick.

Warrick glared at Grissom and waited for the response to come. He knew what it would be. Grissom met his eyes, and shook his head apologetically.

"We wait," Warrick said bitterly, answering Greg's question for him.

The crime lab was in total chaos. When news like this got out, it spread, and it spread quickly. It seemed as though every single officer, CSI, and lab technician had heard about what happened, and was dealing with it by cramming the halls of the lab and talking about it. Talking about it loudly.

The constant chattering was not comforting to Catherine as she pushed her way out of the conference room and down the hallway to her small office. The team had silently left the room and headed in opposite directions. Grissom went to the A/V lab to check in with Archie and Crane's surveillance equipment, Greg and Sara went to see if Bobby had found, by some miracle, any trace, anything from the bullet Warrick brought in that would clue them into where Nick might be. Warrick, himself, wanted to check on his wife, and no one blamed him. And Catherine just wanted to be alone for a minute.

As she dodged elbows, she reined in the desire to mow people over and stared straight ahead, focusing on the quiet isolation the small office would provide. She needed to be alone with her thoughts, needed a moment to collect herself.

Catherine never made it to her office. She could feel Conrad Ecklie's presence before she actually saw him coming, sensed the dark cloud of doom he brought with him. Refusing to let the thought of him get to her, she continued to plow through the mass of arms and legs and was intercepted only a few feet in front of her office door.

"Catherine," he greeted her, crossing his arms. "What are you going to say?"

Catherine frowned up at him. "About what?"

Ecklie laughed as if to say 'Oh, Catherine.' It wasn't necessarily cold, just the way he was. "To the press."

Catherine gaped at him.

"Oh, come on," he continued, realizing she seriously wasn't thinking along the same lines he was. "After what happened last summer, they're going to be all over this."

"Are you kidding me?" Catherine asked loudly, taking a step forward. "I have a lot on my mind right now, but I can assure you that I am not thinking about the press."

Ecklie held up his hands defensively. "Catherine, I know you care about Nick, and you're worried, and I am, too, but – "

Catherine found herself taking another step forward, and Ecklie taking a surprised step back. "What's Nick's brother's name? Or his favorite color?" She paused and got nothing but silence in return. "No? Then don't stand there and tell me that you care about what happens to him. You care about the lab, and you care about yourself," she said, her voice loud and straining and full of all of the tension and stress of the day.

If Ecklie was hurt by her words, he recovered in less than a second. The fact that Catherine was yelling at him in the middle of a crowded hallway, and embarrassing him, didn't help. Anger clouded his face. "Gil may let you get away with a lot of things, Catherine, but you cannot talk to me like this, no matter the circumstances. You're suspended for a week."

Catherine drew in a breath. She may have said something she'd regret. She may have said something he'd regret, but Grissom entered the picture, drawn from the A/V lab by their loud voices.

He stepped forward and immediately cut off whatever it was Catherine was going to say, and she was mildly disappointed that she would never know what it might have been. "Conrad, I know you don't mean that. We're all stretched a little thin, and it's understandable, and I think cause for a little room."

Ecklie rolled his eyes as if to say 'of course you do' and sighed, but it was a resigned sigh.

"Besides," Grissom continued, once again using his famous wise-and-logical-Grissom voice, "If we're going to find Nick, we're going to need everyone."

Ecklie studied him for a moment, his face set, and nodded. His gaze turned to Catherine, his mouth a thin line. "I'm sorry, Catherine."

Catherine paused a moment, not really wanted to accept the forced and meaningless apology, but in the end managed a nod. After Ecklie turned and walked away, she turned and stared at Grissom, mouth open and eyes wide.

"What?" he asked.

"You said 'if.' 'If' we're going to find him."

Grissom cocked his head, his eyes betraying a deep regret for his word choice. "I was speaking hypothetically."

"You were speaking hypothetically about Nick," Catherine said quietly, and walked past him into her office before he could say anything further.

She shut the door and leaned back against it, bringing her hands to her face.

It wasn't exactly the nap Nick had needed during his busier than usual work schedule of late. For one thing, it took way too long for him to get his eyes open. For another, he was definitely not rested or relaxed. He wasn't sure what exactly brought him so quickly back to consciousness: the slam of the door or the stab of pain in his middle. He forced his eyes open, and after the stars faded from his vision, he once again pushed his hand against his side and sat up.

Too quick. Nick groaned as his vision momentarily grayed. He moved his free hand to his head, which was not feeling too well. He immediately cringed at the gummy feeling of drying blood under his fingers. The sudden movement of sitting up made him queasy, too, and he sat still, both to wait for the world to stop spinning, and to listen for any sign that there was someone else was in the room with him.

When Nick heard nothing but his own labored breathing, he allowed himself to lean back on the couch he'd been sprawled on, possibly thrown onto. His left hand was starting to cramp from the force of holding it so tight to his side, and Nick braced himself and looked down.

There was barely any light coming into the room, but when he removed his hand, Nick was still momentarily sickened at the sight of so much blood on his shirt, a black stain in the dark. Nick pulled gingerly at the hem, and the material lifted away from the wound with an even more nauseating sucking sound.

Crane had been telling the truth; the bullet hadn't hit him square-on, but had still succeeded in taking a sizeable chunk out of him. Whether he'd missed on purpose or it was due to his inexperience with firearms, Nick didn't know, and honestly didn't care at the moment. Pulling the shirt away from the tear had caused it to bleed again, and Nick had nothing with which to staunch it. All he could do was let his shirt fall back down and hold his hand to it again.

After another long moment of sitting, Nick's eyes began to adjust to the dimness of the room as they frantically scanned the dark for a way out. They sought out the outline of a window on the wall opposite from the one where he was. He frowned. It was high in the ceiling. Basement, he thought, sighing at the knowledge that there was no way he was going to be able to hoist himself up that high, not with the wound in his side.

Nick quickly scanned the rest of the small room: dark ceiling, dark walls, some kind of big shape against the far wall, and a sliver of light coming out of the bottom of a doorframe.

This is what he focused on, and he sucked in a breath before staggering to his feet. It didn't take quite so long for the world to right itself this time, so he took a shaky step across the room. He'd be damned if he just sat, helpless, in some dark room and waited for that son of a bitch to come back.

One thing was for certain, Grissom was getting one hell of an 'I told you so' when he got back to the lab. Something panged in Nick's chest, a sense of panic he'd fought tooth and nail to rid himself of, and he gulped. He was getting out of here. Wherever 'here' was.

Nick had taken only four slow and painful steps across the room when the door that he was heading for creaked as it started to open.

To be continued...