He was back again, two days later. Minus the black-T-shirt, replaced by Lycra of deep blue, and comfy dark slacks. This time he carried a black leather kit, similar to a toolbox. He wasn't 'on the job' per se. That didn't keep him from owning spare supplies, wasn't like he didn't buy half of them out of his own pocket. City didn't foot the bill all the time.
The receptionist for the Domain kept Nick waiting, as usual, until he was permitted to go further into the house. Star was her pet name, with striking Asian features and black and white shaded tattoos covering up every inch of skin. Bone pins held her hair in a bun, glitter makeup like he saw in those cartoons he caught Archie viewing all over her beautiful pale face. Freaky looking and stunning at the same time, she was soft spoken as could be.
She engaged him in small talk, minus any flirting, a real pro. Nick nodded appropriately, trying to ignore a much deeper ache than ever before. This 'moonlighting' kept him on his toes, and off his regular schedule of Vicodin and the contents of other pretty brown bottles. Kept him away from PT appointments that he normally canceled anyway.
Until now, when it felt like something was gnawing away inside the muscle, his leg one throbbing mass of angry nerve endings. Could check his heart rate by the constant fiery flares. He was due for another dosage, but forewent it when the call came--and like any good worker he showed up to do what was required of him. Randomly he thought about telling Grissom whom he was helping, but then again, it was hard enough to dodge the daily calls and attempted visits to his home by people from the lab.
He politely nodded and added a few "Uh-huhs", ears never getting used to the occasional scream from a hidden room. The staff here was very used to it but he tensed up every time he heard one.
The monstrous steps behind him were not that of his employer, and he kept surprisingly cool when a young looking Arnold Schwarzenegger made a beeline for the desk. A perfect Aryan specimen, complete with closely trimmed blond hair and razor sharp steel blue eyes.
"Good evening," the Giant addressed him—no mistaking it…he was very personable.
"How's it going?" It wasn't not meant to be a real hello.
"I see you around her a lot. You like it here?" Arnold Jr. inquired with a sweet grin despite a jaw that could probably chew up and spit out car parts.
Star shot him amused looks and his brain picked this time to get dumb. He didn't say a damn thing, looking kind of stunned.
The beast-man rested his elbow on the desk, eyes never off his face. "You bring your own tools?"
Nick looked down at his kit and his cheeks burned, knowing exactly what it looked like. "They're---th---I need them for work."
Nope wrong words, because Mr. Friendly almost glowed with excitement. "You going to use them tonight?"
Somehow he couldn't find the right words to respond and his companion was checking him out quite openly and some of that happy-dumb like quality was replaced by a glint in the man's eyes. That expression, Nick recognized right away. Subconsciously he backed one step away as the giant matched it.
Right now all he could see was another leather-clad gimp, growling and wielding a whip, shouting in German.
"Gunter, you are required in the Asylum."
Nick watched strict obedience as the giant turned attentively.
Lady Heather issued an order and her employee acquiesced quickly, almost scrambling as much as his massive size could handle. She stood there, radiating power, and Nick quickly turned on the filter to his brain before he said something stupid.
The low lighting of the lobby caught the long, thick strands of her hair at just the right angle, deep black, with highlights of red, flickering.
"Let's go to my office."
Nick obeyed automatically, the radiating pain momentarily forgotten as he disappeared behind her into the confines of the Domain.
Before any real greeting plastic was shoved into his hands, her black gloved ones titillating his skin as they met.
He scanned the zip-locked baggie, inside an obvious extortion letter; who knew how Heather got in possession of it. Nick didn't need to speak, examining the document in interest, not caring too much what was typed inside it, but at what might be-if anything- left smeared on the outside.
Finally something worth inspection, no matter how futile.
"Seems you've sparked a few people's interest here." The Mistress spoke casually.
He smiled, embarrassed. "Humph."
It was impossible not to look over at her as Heather spoke, some invisible lure he was fascinated by, like a child wanting to strike a hornet's nest with a stick. Feeling invincible and in danger at the same time.
She beamed experience, old wisdom. "Gunter has inquired about your availability as have some other staff members," she said, tilting her head, waiting.
He studied the evidence instead. "You have any idea how many people handled this?"
"As far as I know, just the client and the blackmailer." Her fingers brushed over his knuckles. "I wore gloves to prevent any contamination."
He ignored the allure of soft pelt. "I'm going to need comparisons."
"From the list of people you narrowed down," Heather reaffirmed.
He shrugged. "It's what you contracted me to do. I'd stick to the three who have access to your office, but adding a few others would help hide your true suspicions "
"You have something I could use?" she asked.
He pulled out blank ID cards and an inkpad. If this were a normal case, he'd do every exemplifier himself, but these were her people.
Nick couldn't keep that lump in his throat down when he handed off the needed supplies, leather met skin again, and tiny bursts were telegraphed down the wires of his body. No matter how recent that cold shower and mental cleansing of distracting thoughts, being inside this place tempted him every minute.
"What else is in your black bag?"
He smirked at the obvious bait, but didn't pass up the opportunity to show off a tiny bit. He fished out a pair of gloves, filling in the latex with his hands, then several small jars of powders, brushes, tweezers, and a few random bottles. With the flair of a magician, he wowed his audience of one with the scientific attributes of each chemical and their properties.
"This is a fluorescence used to detect blood." Nick twirled the spray container as he pulled out his ALS and goggles.
"You use the color tint of the goggles to see a change in pattern?"
"Yeah. The orange of the lens picks up the molecules of the iron," he explained eagerly.
She smiled, prodding. "And if there isn't anything, then you don't see anything."
Nick bobbled his head, laughing. "Just a weird smear from the spray."
"Why did you bring that here?"
Nick put the goggles back in his bag, "Just part of my backup kit. No worries. This is only a fraction of what I normally carry since this isn't my official one." Nick took the plastic encased letter and set it down on her desk. "Now here's the most important item in my kit," and with a spark in his eyes, rummaged inside, drawing eye contact.
"No CSI should be without this modern marvel." He watched her move closer in anticipation as he retrieved a magnifying glass from his kit.
Nick grinned when Heather arched an eyebrow, proud his theatrics drew her in.
"As I said before. Every good detective will find a way to find his clues." She gathered everything to collect the prints of her employees, her lips curled into a devilish smile.
Nick settled down behind her desk, pulling the light forward for him to study the letter. "I'll see if I can retrieve anything useful. You didn't by chance---"
Lady Heather slid another zip-locked bag over the expanse, inside a large piece of packing tape. "My client's print to rule out his on the letter and envelope."
Nick was impressed. "Good. Now if you only had a mini DNA lab, I could check for saliva."
"The envelope is self adhesive."
He had walked right into that one, since he hadn't really inspected his only evidence yet. He raised his eyebrows as she hovered in the doorway. Trying to regain his lost pride he stared in false annoyance.
"That guy's name is really Gunter?"
The Mistress saw right through his ploy. "No, but I'll let him know you inquired," and she left before he could raise his voice in protest.
These were not ideal circumstances; wrong work situation, lousy primitive conditions. Nick carefully sprayed ninhydrin on the envelope and watched as the chemical reacted to the amino acids on the paper, revealing smears and smudges galore. Scanning with his magnifying glass he strained to find anything latent to use. Nothing but a muddied surface. Too much sloppy handling before a sterile environment.
Rubbing at his eyes, readjusting a numb ass and stiff legs, he could feel the air leaking out of any hope. Nick sighed heavily and moved on to the actual letter. The threatening words were in his viewfinder before he took several shots of them. His dust mask covered his mouth and nose again, a sheen of chemical misted over the letter, and he waited... and hoped.
Nick felt a spike in adrenaline as a few partials and even several full prints emerged on the pressed paper. Nodding, encouraged, he pulled the mask down to hang over his shirt, much like a surgeon, and searched for a copier. He needed to run a few extras before taking tape lifts and beginning the basics of preserving the prints for examination later. He stood up, his camera beeping at him, he glanced down and noted the tiny bit or memory left. His tongue rolling along the inside of his mouth, he snapped one more picture of the note, using up the last bit so he could change out cards.
Still at a loss for a copier, he searched the office with no luck and took the letter into the hall with him over towards reception. He dodged an angry looking nun, not wanting to even dare think about what type of role-play that involved and headed towards reception.
Star glanced up at him, some of her perkiness absent.
"Is there a copier here?" he asked, testing the icier waters he detected.
The seriously pissed off woman glared at him, pointing a pencil in the direction behind her. Nick gave her his best smile and went over, keeping the paper inside a thin piece of plastic and pressing the start key. He hummed a tune, trying to ignore the glare of death sent his way.
Nick frowned a little, but retrieved his copies and a long leg jutted out to connect to the wall, blocking his path. Star smacked her gum loudly, looking all the world like an enraged Geisha and not the erotically hot babe of anime covers.
"I don't like ink to stain my fingers. Inject it in my pores, create arts of work on my flesh, but this crap doesn't even come off with steaming hot water and Lava soap," she growled.
He wet his lips, flustered for just a moment over such an outrage over messy hands; then again maybe everyone had their tics. "We need to rule you out. Use rubbing alcohol- it'll get most of it off, and now you can tell people you were once under investigation, got to be a turn on for someone," he drawled acting very serious.
The receptionist rolled her chair back, letting him pass. "I bet that sweet charm gets you out of a lot of jams."
Nick stifled a laugh. "Yes ma'am, it does."
He re-entered the hallway relieved not to run into any more employees in between acts. Exhaling heavily he returned to Heather's office and shut the door. His brow crinkled as he reached for a light switch. Suddenly a thick arm wrapped around his throat like a vice, as someone throttled him in a fierce chokehold.
Papers and plastic fell to the floor, his voice stifled by the pressure to his larynx. Nick's hands dug into flesh and fought to wrestle the restraint over his windpipe. The criminalist bucked like a wild bull, twisting and straining. Rock solid muscle stood frozen like a giant slab of meat, Nick's struggles just mere distractions.
He was all about oxygen, losing it fast, face puffing red, tiny noises escaped as his mouth sought out air. Gasping, his heart pumped double time, slamming against his chest. Nick stooped over just as his attacker tried to lift him off his feet to try to make quick work of him.
His vision swam, tinged with emerging blackness and Nick kicked with his feet, hooking his good leg behind that of the perp's tree trunk and successfully lashed out enough to trip. Both sprawled to the floor forwards, both set of legs crumbling from the uneven distribution of weight. Nick's mouth hung open, gasping, when lancing pain ripped through his thigh.
Whatever air left in his lungs was forced out in an 'ooofff' as he landed on his arm, panting, colors returning to normal. Nick scurried away like a crab, placing distance between him and his assailant. Still puffing away, desperately drawing in oxygen, he grunted and growled, staggering to his feet as the suspect got to his, ready to charge at him again.
'Beat back the pain, before you get pummeled' he told his body.
He caught a look at his attacker, beefcake all in black, complete with nifty S&M leather mask, just like every other on-the-clock employee that roamed around here. Casual attire for around this place. Great. Gimp Man wasn't even breathing heavy as he simply stalked over, not intimidated by the shorter, leaner CSI. Nick braced himself; he wasn't some wannabe pro wrestler, but he could stand his ground.
Gimp Man took a massive swing. If the fist had actually made contact, it might have broken his jaw, but instead Nick ducked and went for the guy's midsection, stinging knuckles the only result. It was like decking a wall, and he moved in time to prevent some real damage to his face, clocking the suspect with a left hook, fingers popping with contact.
Okay time to face facts. It was still manly to scream and get help when faced with some reject from a Quentin Tarantino movie.
Nick's yell was cut off when Gimp Man took two fistfuls of shirt, picked him up and tossed him over the desk. All of his equipment toppled on top of him adding insult to injury, one bottle smacking him in the face. Hearing massive clomping, Nick grabbed the first thing he found- the container of solution that beaned him. Fingers sprayed Fluorescein into the man's costume mask looming over him. The giant hissed and clawed at his face, giving Nick enough time to hobble to his feet, his left leg reminding him that it had missed two weeks of serious physical therapy.
Making a retreat, the door so close, the CSI gritted his teeth over the searing fire in his leg, right before a boot connected hard behind his injured left limb. Somehow the perp had honed in on his old wound.
He couldn't scream, vocal cords stunned by the agony. Instinct took over, curling himself up, hands trying to relieve the damaged leg. His blood had not been spilled, but it was as if his attacker could smell it, casually walking over. The larger man kicked hard leather into his crippled thigh, once, twice, then a final savage time.
Gimp Man let him writhe on the floor, eyes squeezed shut, moisture leaking trails down his cheeks. All the pain, every fiber of his being stolen by shock, a throbbing sending him right back to that night. The wild beating drum that his hands are unable to stop. Nick swore he could feel the blood pumping out like it did that in that alley.
"Stokes! Goddammit, you hang on, you hear me!" Cavaliere shouted in his face.
It feels like an elephant sitting on his chest, breath a fleeting concept. His right hand permanently attached to the wound in his thigh, warm blood leaking out between numbing fingers. Jaggedly ripped open flesh, femur that's cracked and he doesn't know it... because all Nick understands is an icy cold that's making him tremble and jerk on the harsh, sticky ground.
Cavaliere's pants are stained crimson, knees soaked by the growing pool seeping into the trash Nick's laying on. He tried to lift his left hand, forgotten it's intertwined in the detective's. Who knew Chris could look so stricken?
"Stay with me, man! Come on, look at me, Stokes!"
His hand is squeezed hard. Nick doesn't see that the detective's other hand is occupied, thumb and fingers plugging the wound hemorrhaging massive amounts of blood.
"W—where's...the...k-kid?" he grunts out, light headed, and queasy, very very close to puking all over himself. The aroma of Chinese food from that takeout place screwing with his increased nausea.
"Don't worry about that punk!" Cavaliere hisses, and that makes him very nervous.
Last thing he recalled before his leg took in lead was the scared shitless, young gangbanger holding the detective's own gun to Chris's head, threatening to pull the trigger. Nick's own Glock in his hand as soon as he turned the corner giving chase after the both of them.
What the Hell happened? He can't move his head, can't look to see where the suspect is now, too many cops crowding around, gazing at him intently.
He hears someone. Cavaliere? Calling his name.
Then something about a tourniquet.
Nick is too cold now, pain and fear, head exploding as he coughs, still struggling for air. Then he notices a commotion, and something laced around the damn mess that was his thigh.
Someone is telling him that it's going to hurt, and before he passes out, letting the numbness reach his brain, he screams and everything went black.
A noise brought him back to the present, same pain, same agony in his leg. Gimp Man bumbled around, and out of the corner of his eye, Nick watched as the print copies and the original letter were shoved into the guy's pocket.
'So that's what this was about.' Before he could get the nerve endings to talk to his brain, Gimp Man bent over his prone form.
"Say goodnight."
A meaty leather glove backhanded him so hard that Nick was unconscious before his head snapped back into place.