Note: here ya go! Thanks for all the reviews...sorry i haven't gotten replies out! I read them all, though...thanks so much! hope this chapter is as enjoyable!
and a special thanks to Kristen for the medical info! Definitely came in handy for this chapter!
gracias!
Chapter Twelve
The doors to the ER were in perpetual motion. The opening and closing repetitive and hypnotic.
The sky outside was becoming lighter with each passing minute, the first hint of dawn making its presence known as Grissom became transfixed by the automatic sliding of the emergency doors. Around him doctors and nurses scurried about their routines, their charts in hand as they ran for tests or to meet the needs of the next patient.
Desert Palms was a hub of activity, yet an aura of calm surrounded the building. Green lawns, colorful plants, and full shrubbery covered the grounds despite the winter chill, providing an almost calming effect. It did little, though, to calm the nerves of the CSIs waiting in the waiting area.
The plastic chairs did little to accommodate the nervous crowd, their presence nearly going unnoticed as most of the team took to pacing the floor, or standing huddled together in some attempt of support.
When Grissom had seen Nick, his very life seemed to lurch from his body. Everything within him had crumbled at the feeble condition of the man. His anger and fear had been squelched into an overpowering sense of despair as he attempted to apply pressure to the CSI's wound. It had been a desperate attempt to control the bleeding.
The paramedics had immediately loaded the man on a stretcher and wheeled him to the waiting ambulance. Grissom, once the fog managed to clear from his brain, had quickly gathered the team and followed suit to the hospital.
The drive in itself was long and nearly unbearable, the silence nearly deafening. The only thing keeping him going, the overpowering need to know his guys would be okay. It was what kept his foot pressing the accelerator, what kept his eyes on the road before him.
The look he'd noticed on Catherine's face as he'd walked out of the community center was enough to stop him cold in his tracks. He hated the look on her face. He hated that she was hurting. He hated even more that he couldn't protect the people around him. He couldn't protect the people for whom he was responsible. It was a sic realization he'd been faced with on too many occasions.
The waiting room was small, cramped. There wasn't enough space. He was suffocating. The confines of the chair were stifling. He needed air, needed to get away from…everything.
It was at that moment, he noticed Tina rushing through the receiving doors. Her brown eyes were wide with concern, with fear. Had she been crying?
Someone needed to talk to her, to catch her up on what had happened, to reassure her that things would be okay. He was glad that someone was Catherine. He'd never felt a sense of relief as gratifying as when he watched Catherine greet the woman, Warrick's wife, and began explaining what had happened. It was better that she do it. Words seemed to be useless to him at the moment.
There was a situation; he could guess Catherine was telling her as they walked away from the group. Shots were fired. Warrick was hit in the shoulder. He and Nick were taken and held hostage. We don't know anything yet. The doctors are still working on them.
They'd been through this before. It was the same thing each time. Each time their guys made it out, relatively okay. He had no reason to believe it wouldn't happen again.
He watched now as Sara sat beside the shell shocked wife. There were no words, just the comfort of another body nearby.
Catherine was making her way across the room now, toward him. He didn't feel like talking, didn't think he could even if he wanted to.
"You okay?" she asked taking the chair beside him.
He nodded his head slowly, fearing his voice would fail him were he to try and speak. He was relieved to see the form of the approaching doctor, his attention momentarily sidetracked from the arduous task of creating small talk.
"How are they?" he asked standing to meet the man. Tina quickly pushed her way through the crowd huddling around the men.
"Are you Tina Brown?" the doctor asked his gaze shifting to the petite woman. A nod of the head was all the confirmation he needed to continue. "You husband suffered extensive trauma to his left shoulder. Most of the damage was relatively minor, some tissue damage. There was some minor muscle damage as well that can easily be repaired. He lost a significant amount of blood at the scene. We've already administered one blood transfusion, and may need to give him a second. I'm particularly concerned with the high fever he seems to be running, right now. It seems he's contracted an infection in the wound tract. We retrieved splinter fragments from the entrance point, some form of wood splinters. We've administered a round of antibiotics and have him on IV fluids for minor dehydration. He's on his way up to the OR now to retrieve the bullet and repair any muscle damage there may be."
"But, he'll be okay?" Catherine spoke up, her arms crossed in front of her.
"With some follow up physical therapy, I don't see any reason why he won't make a full recovery," the doctor nodded addressing the whole group. "There's a waiting room up in surgery. A nurse can take you up there if you like. He'll be allowed visitors once he's out of recovery."
"What about Nick?" Grissom asked. His voice sounded odd to him.
"Mr. Stokes' injuries were quite a bit more severe," he started slowly, pulling out the patient chart in his hand. "He was brought in, in an extreme state of shock due to severe blood loss. The bullet entered just below the rib cage on his left side. When he was brought in, his blood pressure was dangerously low. We had to auto-transfuse him to bring his pressure back up to a more normal level before we could administer anymore medication. We've been able to get his hemoglobin and bilirubin back up to a semi-normal levels as well.
"He suffered an injury to the left side of his neck, also resulting in a significant loss of blood. We were able to get that bleeding under control. He'll need several stitches.
"The wound to his abdomen, however, is a little more difficult to assess. We've administered IV fluids, antibiotics and vasopressors in order to get his blood flowing to his organs and offset the effects of shock to his system. We've administered three blood transfusions already and are preparing to administer a fourth. He's had significant trauma to his midsection, and has suffered several internal injuries. Quite honestly, I'm surprised he's made it as far as he has.
"He's being transported to the OR now. The surgeon will explore the wound tract, and make any repairs that he can.
"Does Mr. Stokes have any family?" he paused now, his eyes falling on Grissom.
"Yes, in Dallas," he nodded, his voice still surprising him.
"It'd be a good idea to give them a call," he nodded turning to leave.
"Thank you doctor," Grissom nodded.
The news wasn't dire, but it was far from great. Warrick would make a full recovery. His injuries, though nothing to be sneezed at, were less worrisome now that they knew the extent of the damage. The bullet had missed any major arteries, and what injuries he had sustained were fixable. The infection seemed troublesome, but also fixable.
Nick's condition on the other hand, well he found it easier not to think about.
"Gil?" Catherine asked from her seat. The group had divided, had found their places in chairs around the room. He'd remained frozen in his place, standing, staring in the direction in which the doctor had recently retreated.
He turned and saw the woman he'd worked with for years. She looked different to him. Slowly, hesitantly he returned to the chair in which he'd previously taken up residence.
"Why don't you go home?" Catherine asked quietly.
"I'm fine," he shook his head, his brain still working through the fog from all the events and information recently stored into his short term, and ultimately his long term, memory.
"You look like hell. Why don't you go home, clean up a little? You can't go in and see Nick looking like that," she said her voice low.
He looked down, taking in his own appearance. It'd been the first time he'd done so since leaving the crime scene. His hands were stained, almost a copper color. His clothes covered, smeared with blood.
He couldn't make himself move. But, as much as he hated to admit it, the woman beside him was making sense. It was something that was happening more and more the longer they worked together.
"Look, Nick and Warrick will be in surgery at least a couple hours, probably even longer. I'll stay here, Sara and Greg are here. We all have your number. If anything comes up, we'll call you," she rationalized.
Giving in to the logic behind the woman's words he nodded and slowly rose from his chair. "Call me the minute you hear something," he pointed a finger. "I'll be back in an hour."
She watched the man leave.
Her cell phone was in her hand. She'd been staring at it for God knows how long, willing her fingers to dial the number she knew she needed to dial. A call to the Stokes family was quite possibly the thing she feared the most, next to…well, next to Nick not making it. A call to the Stokes family was never under good circumstance, was never a desirable thing. Working up the nerves, she steeled herself, and forced her numbers to punch the much hated numbers on the keypad.
She sat back in her seat.
The phone was ringing.
The interrogation room was cold and dark. The presence of the detective only helped to enhance the coldness.
"Listen, kid, your ass is mine," Brass said, his face inches from that of Raphael Dominguez.
He'd watched the ambulance drive away, Nick in the back. He'd then parted ways with the CSIs and returned to the department. While he wanted no more than to be at the hospital to lend his support, he knew his time would be best spent getting the ball moving at PD. He had no greater pleasure than closing the case on the punks that put his friends on a repeat of the hell they'd already faced one.
The Dominguez brothers now sat in separate interrogation rooms. While Brass spent his time with the older, detective Cavaliere roasted the younger.
"Look, talk or don't talk, but we've got you," Cavaliere leaned into the young man in the next room. "And you better believe we're putting you away for life. You shoot a cop; you better believe you're going down. You want to save your skin? You better start talking."
He glared at the kid, now, from across the table.
"If my guys die," Brass said, his eyes merely slits as he glared at the older brother, his voice low and menacing, "you're looking at the needle, bud."
Neither brother seemed willing to talk, not at all surprising to either detective. They were wasting their time.
"Look," Cavaliere said walking behind the boy as he sat in the metal straight backed chair. "We know what went down. The 83s are all singing the same song. They say you guys started the shoot out. They say you guys shot the cop." The stiffening of the kid's posture was like music to his ears. He knew he was striking a chord. "I mean, that's what happened right? They come on your turf. They had it coming, right?" He waited, now. The kid was sweating.
"Maybe your brother was the mastermind behind it all. Maybe you felt trapped in the situation, had no way out. That really can't be it, though, can it?" he asked walking around the table and taking a seat across from the now scared looking kid.
"You know," Brass smirked. "Your kid brother's in the next room telling my partner all this was your idea. He said you were holding him hostage, that he had no choice. If that's true, well it doesn't look good for you…" he trailed off standing to leave the room. "You know," he stopped at the door momentarily, "I thought blood was supposed to be thick. I thought all you guys stuck together. But, to have your kid brother rat you out?" he shook his head. "Get him out of here," he motioned to the officer in the room.
He moved to the hallway, watching as the officer escorted Raphael Dominguez out of the cramped space.
"Hang on a second," he stopped them just outside the door. "You know, I really had high hopes for you. I thought you'd be smarter," he shrugged backing up just as Cavaliere came out of his interrogation.
The two detectives stood, watching as Miguel Dominguez was led out into the hall.
"¡Hijo de una perra!" Raphael exclaimed making a jump at his younger brother. "I trusted you!" he scowled at the shrinking form of Miguel.
"Mi hermano," Cavaliere stepped into the attempted scuffle, "ahora no importa. Sabemos qué fue abajo. Usted ve, usted se dijo hacia fuera. Su asno es el mío. Consiga utilizado a él."
Silently, the detectives watched as the brothers were taken to lock-up.
"What'd you say to him?" Brass asked, his brow raised in curiosity.
"Told him we know what went down," he shrugged nonchalantly.
"What else did you say?"
"Told him his ass was mine, to get used to it," he smiled slightly.
Brass nodded in understanding. Cavaliere had a way of crawling under his skin. Most of the time he steered clear of the man, not liking his style with suspects. Tonight, though, the man had proven to be an asset. He'd busted his ass to get Nick and Warrick back, hadn't neglected his duties. He'd proven himself.
"You want a ride to the hospital?" Brass asked the man beside him. "I'm heading on over."
"I'll meet you there. I have a couple things to take care of here, first."
The two parted ways, a new understanding silently reached between them.
The sun was just breaching the horizon as Grissom rolled back into the hospital parking lot. He'd arrived just as Brass was climbing out of his vehicle. The two nodded in greeting as they met and made the long walk toward the hospital entrance. It was like a dance they'd perfected within the past nine months.
The walk to surgery was quiet and rhythmic.
The waiting room was even quieter.
It was a painful game they'd been playing the past 12 hours.
But, the waiting game continued.
It was all they could do.
So they played the familiar game silently.
They played like pros.