Chapter Eight

Gil's eyes were straining, feeling dry and scratchy, but he didn't blink. His hand supported his chin and his elbow rested on the table that he was still seated at in the A/V lab. He wasn't sure how long he'd been there, and he realized it didn't matter. It seemed like there was always something more to watch, to discover, to speculate over. All he could think was how embarrassed Nick would be to know he'd seen it all.

Archie had mentioned something having to do with the flashlight, and he was right. The camera locations Crane had chosen hadn't been optimal for seeing what had happened, but Gil had gotten the idea. Nick had gotten spooked and investigated his attic.

When he saw Nick stalk through his living room and fling the flashlight onto his kitchen counter, Gil felt another all too familiar tug in his chest.

"We'll figure this out."

That was all that he'd said to Nick before he left the lab. Nothing more, nothing comforting or reassuring. He wasn't even sure he'd really believed there was anything to figure out at that point. Nick had been scared, and Gil had written it off as some kind of post-traumatic stress paranoia. God knows, the man had been through enough to warrant a fair amount of paranoia.

But this time, Nick hadn't just been being paranoid. He'd had a reason to be scared, and Gil hadn't given it the attention it deserved. He had failed, yet again.

What got to Gil even more than the suggestion that Nick had felt unsafe enough in his on home to check that there were no maniacs living in his attic, was the clip Archie had saved for him from the feed of the camera positioned in Nick's bathroom. The clock on the bottom of the feed read only a few moments after Nick had stormed back into his kitchen. Gil dutifully watched the screen as Nick pulled a prescription bottle out of his medicine cabinet and dry-swallowed a couple of the pills.

Sara had mentioned something about finding the medications in Nick's bathroom, prescriptions Gil was under the impression had expired. He had no idea Nick was still refilling the various 'scripts every month.

Just something else he'd missed.

Physiology trumped Gil's subconscious self-induced sort of punishment, and he blinked. His focus now broken from the lock it had had on the monitor in front of him, he looked out through the window in the hall. Archie had excused himself nearly an hour earlier to get a cup of coffee, and had yet to return. Gil could barely make out his shape across the hall, leaning uncomfortably on a counter in the DNA lab. Standing around him were Greg and Sara.

Gil inwardly frowned at the trio, standing around when there was so much that needed to be done, but outwardly only sighed, looking down at the table. He didn't even know what it was that needed to be done, and more importantly, who was he to decide how they should be dealing with this?

He didn't even know how he should be dealing with it.

Greg listened silently as Sara and Archie traded angry comments containing choice words that Greg hadn't ever heard come out of the mouth of either of them; many of the comments they were making were about the doctors from the facility where Crane had been.

"Fucking quacks," Archie said, his eyes narrow. Greg knew the A/V tech hadn't been hands-on with anything to do with the case besides the tapes Grissom brought him, but stories had been told. Greg was sure everyone in a thirty-mile radius of the lab knew the entire story by now.

Greg had opted out of the roast of the health care professionals, only offering encouraging nods. If it was helping them get their frustrations out, then he was all for it. He just wasn't sure it would help him the way they were hoping it would help them.

He gradually stopped listening to the others, his eyes scanning the halls of the crime lab. They paused as they ran over the A/V lab, and he caught Grissom's eye. His supervisor immediately averted his gaze, bringing a coffee cup to his lips.

Greg frowned. It had definitely seemed as though Grissom had been watching him. He glanced back at Archie and Sara, so enthralled in exchanging insults they seemed to have forgotten he was even there, and Greg silently slipped out into the hall.

Grissom had been so invested in making it look as though he hadn't noticed Greg had seen him that he didn't hear Greg come up next to him until he was sinking onto the stool next to him. He looked over at Greg sharply, as though mutely accusing him of entering some kind of no-fly zone.

Greg looked down and over to the screen at which the older man had been so busy blankly staring. It was paused on an image of Nick, leaning over his bathroom sink, one of the little amber pill bottles next to his hand. Not a second after Greg's eyes flickered to the monitor did he hear the tap of a keyboard to his left and the screen went black.

"Grissom," he started, looking back over to his supervisor, but Grissom had risen from his stool and was making his way out of the room.

Greg watched his retreating form, retreating in more than one way, and sighed. It seemed that every time something big happened to them, one of them had to make the step up and work as the glue for the group, and he was starting to feel like this time it was his turn.

Greg set his jaw, and he started to think.

"What are you thinking?"

Catherine looked up at Warrick and raised her eyebrows, stretching out her eyes, which were blurry and tight from reading.

She let the file in her hands fall to her lap, and looked back down at it. "I think this is useless."

"I don't mean about the file."

"What do you mean?"

The two hadn't really been talking since they'd settled into Catherine's office to read through the file they'd secured. Catherine was at her desk, legs pulled up in her chair so her shins rested against the edge of the desk. She had made a tight, safe little space for herself.

Warrick was seated in a much less comfortable chair, in a much less comfortable position, and it showed. He stretched his legs out and rolled his neck, and Catherine heard the pop and the sigh and ignored it, and he was now gazing at her intently, arms resting on his legs.

His green eyes, which had always been able to stir up…something inside of her, now looked at her hollowly. The look left her feeling cold and lonely.

"Do you think he's all right?"

Catherine's lips parted and she cocked her head. She could feel tears gather in her eyes from the undertones of his question. Warrick, the strong, solid rock foundation on which she'd had to lay her faith and trust so many times, was hurting, and having doubts. He needed her reassurance, regardless of the hopelessness she was feeling, herself.

"Of course I do," she said, speaking softly to keep her voice from cracking.

If Warrick was encouraged by her words, he didn't show it. Instead, his eyes dropped to the floor and his shoulders fell even further. "How do you know?"

Catherine frowned. She lowered her feet to the floor and leaned forward. "Warrick, look at me." This time the words came from her mouth strong and unwavering, despite the tears that still threatened to spill.

Warrick's eyes rose sluggishly to meet hers.

"Nick is okay. We're going to find him, and it's going to be okay. Okay?" she finished, her voice finally cracking, and she wiped a finger under her eye.

"How do you know we're going to find him every time, Cath?"

Catherine was spared having to answer Warrick's question when her office door banged open and Greg rushed in, practically dragging Sara behind him, a firm grip on her hand.

Catherine hurriedly ran her hands over her eyes and through her hair. "What's going on?"

"Get up," Greg said, and without pausing for a response, turned and left the office just as quickly as he had come in, Sara still in tow. She shot them a worried look as she was pulled along.

Warrick rose and Catherine followed suit, and the two followed Greg down the hall. He was heading straight for Grissom's closed office.

Greg didn't even knock, he barged right in. He was on a mission, and he didn't release Sara's hand until she was completely in the room, although his subconscious might have had something to do with that. She whipped around to the front of Grissom's desk and looked back at Greg with wide eyes, not unlike the others in the room.

Especially Grissom. His head had shot up at the unannounced intrusion, and his eyes narrowed as the rest of his team filed in slowly. "Greg?" he asked.

"You guys," Greg said, pointing a finger and rotating it between his colleagues in the room, "have got to be kidding me if you think we're going to sit around in this damned lab for another minute."

"Greg," Catherine said softly. "There's nothing more we can do."

"That isn't true," Greg said sternly. "We go back to the apartment, we go back to Nick's, back to your house, Warrick, and we do our jobs and we don't stop until we figure out where Nick is. There has to be something more there, something we missed. This is Nick, guys. We can't let him down." His small speech finished, Greg surveyed the group for their reactions, hands on his hips.

Warrick stared at him with wide eyes, surprised at the outburst coming from such a recently reserved man. Then he smiled and gave Greg a punch on the arm.

Sara chewed on her lip, staring at her shoes. It took only a moment for her to seem to feel Greg's gaze upon her and she looked up. She met his eyes and her expression saddened and then hardened in a microsecond, and she gave him a tight nod.

Catherine had tears in her eyes, although Greg wasn't sure they were the same that had been brimming when she'd rushed out her office after him. She smiled and turned to Grissom.

Greg looked to Grissom last, half-expecting to be yelled at, though why he wasn't sure. Grissom had no harsh words for him. He simply looked at him with an expression that was almost…proud.

Greg was taken aback. He swallowed and smiled nervously.

"That's my Greggo," Warrick said. "Let's get up off of our asses and bring Nick home."

Home was definitely a place Nick would have loved to be at that moment. Something warm and familiar, not this cold, panic-inducing basement.

He wasn't actually panicking too badly at the moment. He'd calmed down considerably since Crane had last left the room. That might have had something to do with the fact Nick didn't really have any idea how much time had passed. There was barely any light in the room; it was obviously still night or early morning. And when he pushed the button on his watch to make the face light up, his head hurt too much and his eyes were too blurry to make out where the hands were. Of all the little aches and pains he was carting around with him, the pain in his head was what was really holding him back at the moment.

Nick had pulled himself back up onto the couch after being left alone, and though not willing to make himself more vulnerable by stretching out completely, had leaned back and laid his head against the cushion. It was pounding, and every time he moved, he felt nauseous. He'd started wiping away the blood on the side of his head, but after realizing he had nowhere to wipe the blood, he'd noted bitterly to himself, why bother?

He found himself watching the door carefully, plotting in his head. He wasn't quite up to moving towards the door, or trying anything too brave, but he wasn't just going to sit back and pass out either. He just needed to sit for a little while longer, push away the pain in his side, ignore the throb in his head, get to the point where he could stand without feeling like he was going to fall over…and do it all before Crane came back.

He wasn't entirely sure what he'd spent all of that time doing. Rage blackouts. He'd heard that term before. Although, as Nigel understood it, usually when those occurred the person went crazy and beat the shit out of either a person or some inanimate object, snapping out of it later not having a clue as to what had happened.

His thoughts went immediately to the person in the basement of the unfinished house. Maybe he had done something like that. No. He was more in control of himself now than ever before. Anything he'd done, he had done consciously.

Then where had the time gone? It was nearly morning, and here he was, sitting on the floor in an open and unfinished room. It was most likely meant to be the living room of the large house, but for whatever reason, construction had been halted. Money, probably. He didn't care. It didn't matter.

Nigel pursed his lips as his eyes wandered over the plywood panels acting as walls in the uncompleted house. Thick plastic sheets, the kind you put down when painting, billowed and rustled in a wind that whistled through the open holes that were meant to be windows. The contractor didn't get that far into the project, and the house had quite a chill in it. Oddly, it didn't seem to affect him. He was used to a chilly atmosphere.

He'd been thinking a lot. About what, he wasn't sure, but there things needing to be thought about. Decisions needing to be made.

Like what to do with Nick.

Nigel was angry with Nick, and there was just no getting around that. He'd tried, believe it or not. He'd tried to get over the anger. The therapy had helped in that respect.

At first.

After so long, it ceased to be therapeutic and instead just seemed to be aiding him in dwelling on events that just made him want to…

And more with the dwelling. Nigel fidgeted in his uncomfortable position on the floor. The anger that had spent so long simmering below the surface was starting to reach a full boil. He didn't like to live like this. He had to do something about the anger and what was causing it.

That was the plan, getting rid of what caused the anger. It was what Doctor Kendall had told him for years he needed to do to get past it, to be himself again. Himself, or maybe even someone better. After years in the institution, that was really the only thing the doctor had said that stuck with him. If Nick wasn't around, he wouldn't be angry anymore.

He'd just needed to find the right moment, and the right way. He wasn't one to strike quickly. He liked to watch people, to study their ways and habits. And if he had the opportunity, he really liked to be on his own turf. He had been hell to beat at chess in high school.

Thud.

Nigel's head whipped around with lightning-fast speed to the bolted door. The last time he'd popped in on Nick, he felt the anger reach a fiery temperature he hadn't ever felt before. In that instance, he felt like someone else had invaded his body, making him stronger, quicker, and brighter. Nigel wasn't stupid; he was short, and by nature limp as a noodle. But with that anger in him…it fueled him.

By the time he'd left, he was sure Nick wouldn't be moving around any time soon, but here he was. Making noise. Being a nuisance.

Nigel couldn't let him make too much noise, or he would alert someone to their presence in the house. It was a ways off of the road, but not too far that someone passing by wouldn't hear, say, a gunshot.

He wondered if he would have the opportunity to get away.

Nick groaned and put a hand to his pounding head. He wasn't exactly graceful at the moment, as he tried to stand on wobbly legs and slipped to the floor with a thud. A loud one, at that. He just hoped he hadn't called attention to himself.

Realizing the floor wasn't optimal fighting grounds should Nigel return to the room, drawn by the sound, he sat up. Bracing on arm on the seat of the ratty couch, he pulled himself into a standing position. Blood rushed to his head and he leaned heavily against the wall. Maybe he'd finally taken one too many hits to the head. His arms and legs felt so heavy, he just wanted to collapse on the couch and sleep for a week.

You can sleep when you get out of here, Nick told himself, and started to slowly move along the wall to the door. He paused a foot or so from it and laid his head against the wall again, listening for any movement on the other side. There was only beautiful, merciful silence.

Not sure what he was expecting or hoping to happen once he made this move, Nick reached for the doorknob. He wasn't in the least bit surprised when it didn't budge. There was extra resistance coming from the frame, and Nick sighed. Locked and bolted. There was no way he was going to be busting down a locked door in his current condition.

Nick chewed on his lip. What in the hell was Nigel's plan? If he was going to kill him, Nick would think he would have done it, or tried to, already. This was just some kind of waiting game and Nick didn't know what to do besides sit around, wait for the door to open, and see what happened. He didn't like that. It was passive and weak, and not who Nick wanted to be. He wasn't going to sit around and wait for Nigel to come at him again.

There was the window. Not his first choice, but pretty much the only chance that he had. From across the room, he could see his escape option a little clearer. It didn't seem there was a glass pane in the frame, but a few simple boards covering it. Slivers of light, moon or streetlight, he didn't know, where coming through the slits. Small ones. It was going to be hard.

Nick rested a few more minutes, leaning against the wall, knowing full and well every second he spent there was one less to use to get away before Nigel came back. It was still silent on the other side of the door.

Nick frowned. What was Crane doing out there?

Knowing the silence wasn't going to last forever, Nick pushed himself off of the wall. The room tilted but didn't spin, so he figured he was doing better. He squinted against the throbbing in his head, and gritted his teeth, if for nothing more than something to distract him. His legs still felt wobbly, his feet heavy as they shuffled in front of each other, but he was moving, and wasn't leaning on anything. That was progress.

When Nick reached the opposite wall, he looked up at the window. If he stretched his hand over his head, he could probably get a good grip on the ledge. He just didn't know if his arms were up for it. He especially didn't want to risk pulling at the wound in his side. Instead, he surveyed the room, his eyes landing on the worn couch next to him. Nick got a firm grip on the top and side of the couch and pulled it towards him, fighting back the strained groan that nearly slipped out.

The couch scraped noisily along the concrete floor. Nick gave it a final tug and it scooted the final foot along the wall. He leaned on the arm of the couch, panting slightly, listening for Crane's approach. The whole operation had been noisier than he'd anticipated, and he had a gut feeling his luck was going to run out. Thankfully, no one entered the room, and Nick turned his attention back to the task at hand.

As he raised a foot to place it on the seat, a nearby shuffle perked his ears and he turned so quickly he nearly fell. His heart thudded painfully in his chest and all the way up into his throat, as his stared wide-eyed at an empty room.

Shit, Nick thought, shaking his head at himself. The thought of someone sneaking up behind him was still enough to unhinge him. There was no one there. Phantom footsteps, and he wasn't getting into that right now. Too many other things to think about. Or worry about, more accurately.

Just to be sure, Nick remained immobile for a long moment, staring at the door. His waited just long enough to get his courage and energy mustered up as well as he could manage, then swung around and stepped up onto the couch in one fluid motion. It may have been a more fluid motion if he hadn't been aching all over, but it worked well enough, as he wasn't lying on the ground.

From this height, the boarded-up window was eye level, and he could make out the long nails that had been driven through the thin planks and into the walls. The window had been boarded up from the inside. Nick frowned. Crane.

He felt around the edges of the boards, feeling for weaknesses in the carpentry. It seemed to have been a quick job, messy and jagged. Some of the boards were split from the sides were nails had been hammered just a little too hard, or at odd angles. His strength wasn't up to its full potential, but it would have to do.

A chilly breeze slipped in through the cracks between the boards and Nick shivered. With both hands, he placed as firm a grip as he could on the highest board. God, if this made any noise at all, Nigel was going to come running within seconds. He's been pretty lucky getting away with making noise up until now. Luck didn't last forever.

Nick took a deep breath, planting both feet as resolutely as he could in the seat cushions. He could feel the pull in his side already, and when he gave that great tug on the board, wrenching the nails from their holes in the wall, it felt as though it ripped open all over again.

Nick gasped and dropped the board in his hand's instinctive rush to cover his side. The board clattered to the hard floor and Nick swore under his breath. That was sure to have done it.

Sure enough, there were muffled thuds and scrapes coming from somewhere in the building. Resigned to the fact that if Nigel got to the room and Nick was still here it would not end well, Nick put his hands on the next board and pulled without pausing for another breath.

"So where would he take Nick?" Warrick asked, placing his hands on his hips.

He and Catherine were once again standing in his living room. Warrick forced his eyes to remain on his partner's face, and not survey the damage to his home.

Greg's pep talk had certainly gotten them on their feet and moving again, and the team had split up and left the lab only moments after. Warrick had taken his house not only because it was his, but because it was the last place Nick and Crane had been. Wherever the lunatic had left with Nick, he had left from there.

Just standing in the room seemed to be helping their thought processes. Although Warrick was avoiding the hole in the wall and the blood in the carpet, Catherine had given it another quick study. They'd also walked up and down the driveway and street for nearly a block, looking for anything to suggest the direction a fleeing Crane may have gone.

Catherine ran a hand over her forehead, brushing her bangs out of her eyes and shook her head. "Somewhere he feels comfortable," she offered.

"Okay, so that gives us what? Attics…" Warrick started to tick things off on his fingers, but realized that after attics, he really didn't know where to go.

Catherine frowned and shook her head again. "No, that's too obvious. Maybe something similar?"

Warrick thought for a moment. "Basement?"

Catherine scrunched her nose. "It'd be pretty hard not to notice someone staying in your basement."

"Okay, let's just start with a general area." Warrick sighed and started to pace. "He'd want to stay close to Nick, yeah? So we're looking for something within a few block of his house."

"Probably close to the lab, too," Catherine added.

Warrick stopped pacing. "What's between Nick's house and the lab?"

Catherine shrugged. "The high school? No, that's too close to the highway. What's off of a side road?"

Warrick paused and thought. He did a quick drive from the lab to Nick's in his head, trying to remember street names and landmarks. There was the high school, the Dairy Queen, a couple of gas stations, an unfinished housing edition, a strip mall…

Wait a minute, Warrick thought. He snapped his fingers and looked up at Catherine. "That housing edition."

"What housing edition?"

Warrick fumbled for the name, his mind racing and limbs tingling at the thought of a lead. "Highland something or other, it doesn't matter. They started building houses over the summer but something went wrong with the contractors or the funding and the project got pulled. There're a couple of half-finished houses out there."

Catherine's eyes lit up. Her mouth opened and she awkwardly grabbed for the cell phone on her belt. It was enough of an answer for Warrick and he breezed past her as she called Brass and Grissom. Catherine was right on his heels.

Please, was the only thought that went through Warrick's mind.

Nick worked as quickly as he could, adrenaline pumping, and he ripped the final two boards from the wall in less than a minute. It was a wonder he'd had that much time. He carelessly tossed the board to the floor, no longer caring about the noise it caused. It didn't matter anyways, because he could hear the scrape of a key from the direction of the door.

"Nick?" Nigel called, alarmed and angry, and there was a pounding on the door. "What are you doing in there?"

What do you think? Nick thought, and he placed his hands on the windowsill, hoisting himself up as best he could. His feet slipped slightly as he braced himself on the back on the couch. It was hard to put the discomfort, the warm and steady trickle of fresh blood out of his mind, but he ignored it as well as his still-pounding head would let him.

Nick got his elbows up on the ledge and his fingertips brushed grass, causing him to kick at the wall even more frantically, struggling to get his weight up. He didn't hear the door open, and didn't hear footsteps crossing the room. But as his upper body started through the narrow opening, he did feel the hand grip his foot.

To be continued...