Nick walked slowly down the hall, reading a file as he neared Mrs. DeMonte's hospital room.
Cocaine.
Tox screen had indicated cocaine in her blood, coupled with the injuries, had triggered a seizure of some kind. Her nasal cavity had indicated use, but not abuse. New user.
He sighed as he flipped it closed. This case was hitting him hard. It was almost like… he had been given another chance to help someone that desperately needed intervention. Only this time she hadn't ended up strangled. Not yet anyway. He still had time.
He nodded to the police officer as he flashed his ID and stepped in, setting down his case on the small counter near the window, pulling out several things and sliding a pair of gloves out.
She looked peaceful, the stress on her brow no longer there in sleep. She was so still. The serene expression twinged at his chest slightly, it looked eerily as if she were dead. He shivered, the vision of a friend in the morgue at the lab striking hard at his temple. His lips pressed tightly together.
Watching her eyes start to flutter, his head tilted as he began to put on his gloves, focusing on a distinct mark on her arm that had recently healed over. Watching her eyes settle to sleep again he moved closer to her, looking at his gloves a moment before resting them back out the counter.
He held his hand out, fingers shaking slightly as he ran his fingertips along the scar, turning her arm over gently.
The muscles underneath her skin were rigid, the tendons standing taught in her hands as he ran his fingers along her forearms. He leaned closer. Scratches, the light mars of healed cuts on her skin were barely visible. Pausing a moment, he slid his fingers under the short sleeves of her gown to her upper arms. One was bandaged, the other, was just as Warrick said. She was just as capable, he suspected, of giving abuse as she was at taking it.
Focusing back on her forearm, he noticed an exit wound on the other side near her elbow. Whatever it was had gone completely through her forearm, probably had broken or displaced the joint.
His eyes winced; hurt, and angry.
There were more, old healed cuts and nicks on her hands mostly on her knuckles, another scar on her palm with an exit wound through the other side. They were smooth, healed unless looking incredibly close. A strange callus stood between her thumb and right index finger; like nothing he had ever seen before.
His brow darkened.
Kara's eyes opened slowly to a hypnotic beeping. She was being touched. Her shoulder hurt, it was tight. Stitches, gauze and tape. She tried to sit suddenly, an instinct burned into her conscious and unconsciousness; fight then flight. A hand rested on her shoulder. Her eyes flew to the person who had invaded her space, seething a sharp breath with immediately coherent eyes.
"Hey, it's okay, you're safe."
Her eyes locked on a familiar face, Nick, they flicked around for anyone else. There was a cop at the door.
"I'm in the hospital," she said softly, feeling a stitch on her inner lip as she touched it with her tongue. She looked silently at him, her eyes dark, tired of the acting; she seemed annoyed for a moment, fingers unconsciously rubbing her elbow.
"I thought your husband didn't beat you," he said.
She smiled slightly, as if smiling at an unknown joke, settling down comfortably in her bed again in a new mindset.
"He doesn't," she said almost inaudibly, her eyes settling on the ceiling. "Where is he?"
"We have a temporary restraining order until we can get this figured out, he's in police custody."
This had turned into one giant nightmare. She reached up and kneaded between her eyes with her fingers, a scowl on her face. Her head hurt.
He was watching her intently, trying to figure out what was going on in her head.
"What happened?" she reached up to press the heel of her hand to her forehead. Blood loss, she'd passed out.
"You had severe lacerations to your shoulder, one nicking a scapular artery. You started bleeding in the interrogation room, after you had a seizure from apparently ingesting cocaine. We found broken glass in your trash with your blood on it, trace amounts of your blood were on the back patio and on… band-aids in the bathroom trash."
She was quiet a long time. Her head really ached.
"It keeps me focused. There was an important party, band-aids were all I could find to cover them. When can I go home?"
His eyes blinked slowly, disbelief at her words. He shook his head tenderly, a distant look to her face as she looked at the floor.
"You can't be serious?" his voice was disbelieving.
Green eyes flicked back to him.
"Your husband put you through a plate glass window…" he started.
"You already have my statement," she interrupted. "I was not brought to the station to discuss my husband's alleged abuse. Do you have more questions about the senator or are you going to continue to press something that didn't happen. If you don't I'd prefer if you left."
"I have more questions," he continued.
"I was standing next to my husband. I heard a ping, my wine glass shattered. It was chaos. I didn't kill the senator, you know that," she said, her eyes narrowed. "If you want to arrest me for snorting cocaine, then fine, but I didn't kill the senator."
He pursed his lips. "I'll pass that along to Grissom so he can check the rest of the house for illegal substances. Did you notice anyone around the house, anyone unusual?"
"No."
"Did you or the senator have any altercation before yesterday?"
"No."
He was writing silently. She watched the clench in his taught jaw. He looked up and she caught his eyes. They were dark, so dark they seemed almost black, he didn't believe her. Damn.
"What do you do for a living Mrs. DeMonte?" he asked as he put down his notepad and picked up a fingerprinting kit and the gloves again.
"I entertain sharp Texas gentlemen," her voice said softly.
He glared at her.
"I'm my husband's wife, it's my job to know people, place accents, try to make conversation."
"Or divert the conversation," he was suspicious. "Let's cut the crap, you're not being cooperative, your husband isn't being cooperative. We understand you are afraid of your husband, Mrs. DeMonte, but we can't help you if you won't help us. I need to take your fingerprints, I can get a warrant if I need to, but it looks better for you if you do it voluntarily."
"Who said I was afraid of my husband? I just want to go home," she said simply.
He stared at her, almost shaking his head. "I don't understand."
"Why women like me want to go back? I don't understand why men like you want to save women like me? I'm just a gold digger to all of you," she was almost accusing. "Is that what you're thinking?"
He was angry, the dark stare directed down a straight nose. He refused to look at her, was almost disgusted with her, but felt intensely sad for her at the same time.
"No, I would never call you that."
"Of course you wouldn't, because regardless of what I say to you I'm broken and you have to find a way to fix me." She was silent for a while, watching him divert his eyes as she stared at him. "You're here to try and get me to rat him out. Did Grissom send you, like he sent you in the house? He thinks I trust you. He thought Brass would be too foreboding."
She pursed her lips, watching his expressions carefully. He was going to get her fingerprints, and then he was going to find the truth; they were too good at their jobs, and she had been too assuming they weren't.
His look had turned to a glare. She was sharp; he could see her brain ticking as she glared back at him. Why would someone that knew what was going on, accepted it, still be there? Still want to return? It baffled him.
"Why are you married to that guy? Is it convenient?" the line had been crossed. He heard Grissom's voice chiming in his head… 'protocol'. Grissom had read him like a book; damsel in distress, pretty face, and he was the knight in shining armor.
"Yes, it's convenient," she said softly.
"So you take a couple punches to the face to get your nails done every week, he forces you to have sex against your will for a pair of diamond studs. You kill a senator for him and you get a new car?" He had gone over the line, he knew it, but he was pissed.
Her silence was palpable; he really had no idea. She was feeding him everything he wanted himself to hear, and she couldn't divert him; so she would satisfy him.
"You forgot to ask what I did to feed my drug habit," her voice was almost a hiss. "You're a good man, Nick, I would hate for something to happen to you because you can't help but to care. Leave this one alone. Process your evidence, give it to the cops and let them do their job."
"Are you saying I'm in danger? That's the different between you and I, I'm not afraid of your husband."
She saw his nostrils flare.
Her eyes softened. Dammit. He really was nothing but a gentleman; he was honestly trying to help her.
"I'm trying to save your life," he said, the same intensity as before.
She knew that! She wanted to slap him.
"And I'm trying to save yours," she finished. "You're not going to leave this alone until you end up dead are you…"
She looked at the uniform just outside the door, no doubt 'protecting' her from her big bad husband. It wasn't her 'husband' that was the threat. It was who he worked for, where his money went. Now she was here, they were involved, and she had to figure out how to get them out of the way. Her eyes took mental pictures as her voice lowered: the nurses in the halls, the visitors rifling by, and the uniform again at the door.
"…it would behoove you to finish your investigation and walk away," she said softly. "Sooner rather than later."
"Fine then. I also was going to ask you where you got all the scars on your hands and before I leave, I would like to take your fingerprints."
His cell phone buzzed mutely; he scowled, setting down the kit and gloves again. He looked at her as he answered, listening intently. This case kept getting worse and worse. On one hand, he was glad the jerk was dead but then felt guilty for feeling that way. He clicked his cell shut, his hand on his hip as he rifled his hair, his lips pressed tightly together.
She was staring at her hands, her fingers flexing in almost an unconscious recognition of something. Her lips were moving silently.
She was saying the same thing over and over. He followed her lips, but couldn't place what she was saying.
"Mrs. DeMonte…" he began. "I don't want to be the one to tell you this but…" he had sat next to her, leaning toward her.
Her eyes flicked to the uniform, who had leaned toward the door as if he was listening. Her eyes narrowed.
She held up her hand to silence him, watching the door.
"Mrs. DeMonte?" he started again.
She quickly pressed her fingers to his lips before he said anything else. The silence was eternal, the pause deafening. Her eyes were watching with obstinate intensity, waiting for something…
"My husband is dead… isn't he…" she said under her breath.
Nick was stunned, feeling her fingers press insistently to his lips to quiet him. He watched her eyes glare intently at the door over his shoulder. His fingers slid toward his gun as his eyes flicked toward the door.
"Nick, look at me…" she shook her head once, catching his fingers tightly as they landed on his gun. The grip was unyielding; she leaned to his ear, her cheek on his, lips brushing his ear as she spoke again, "Don't draw until after I move."
"What's going on…" he whispered as her fingers let go of his lips.
"…a murder…"
She leaned back, her eyes were flicking quickly, the uniform nodded slowly to someone she couldn't see.
His brain was moving quicker that the world around him, this couldn't be happening.
Her other hand had already gathered up the slack on the IV tube and rolled the metal cart closer to her until she felt the cold metal touch her fingers. She grasped it, unscrewing it silently from the base it with one hand.
A man turned into the room, clutching a newspaper in both hands. "Mrs. DeMonte?"
The fierce look on her face turned grim as he raised the newspaper, the muzzle of a gun underneath splintering the edge of the paper as he fired.
She had already begun to move.
Her hand shoved hard at Nick, pushing him backward as she gripped the metal rod of her IV stand and rolled forward, feeling the hiss of a silenced bullet whiz past her ear and strike glass behind them. The rod spun through her fingers like a baseball bat and into the man's skull. He hit the floor and slid into the small shelf across from her bed as the paper scattered in every direction. Kara dove to the floor, hearing the slide of a pistol from a shoulder holster. Two of Nick's shots ripped through the pages still in the air before the assailant could pull the trigger again. He went still against the shelf, his gun clattering on the floor. Kara's fingers swiped it as she rolled to her back; pushing herself away from him with her feet, elbows making a shrill squeegee sound as her skin stuck against the floor.
"You stupid bitch!" the cop snapped under his breath after he stepped into the room, aiming the gun at her as she aimed at him.
Kara snapped the gun to attention; the aim at the cop impeccable down an arrow-straight extended… injured shoulder.
The pop of a silencer echoed in Nick's ears, his body reacting to push Kara out of the way, but it was already done.
The papers wafted gently to the floor in the stunned silence, the shreds holding the smell of recent shots in the air.
People suddenly were screaming in the hall, more footsteps.
The cop fell backward into the hall.
Kara tossed the gun to the floor, watching it slide to the shelf and stop near the dead man's hand.
In the moment of dead silence, her eyes flicked to Nick's.
She forced fake tears to roll down her cheeks. He could see the sorrow behind them, but didn't understand it, didn't understand this, and didn't understand her.
A set of uniforms were at the door in moment, securing guns and calling for back-up.
Nick paused as the uniforms secured the room, looking again at the fresh tears. He gave his gun up to the officers. EMT's were swarming the cop, examining the man near the shelf.
She pulled herself near Nick, clutching his shirt; once more becoming the doting and troubled wife, flinching at all the noise.
"What the hell is going on," he whispered fiercely, intended for her ears only.
He was crouched, merely holding her and not attempting to help her up until the EMT's could get to her.
She breathed slowly, a lock of red hair wafting in front of her face as her fingertip touched the side of her nose, asking for his silence about her actions. Her eyes were darkly intense, narrowed as she took in the details, glancing back and forth from Nick to the dead men.
"Do this for me… please," she whispered under her breath.
He watched the plead in her eyes, his jaw popping as he clenched it, giving her up to the EMT's as they helped her up.
Kara's shoulder had broken open again, but she had stitches upon stitches in the places of concern. Her skin was torn where the IV had pulled from her hand. She had been through worse.
And it was going to get much, much worse.