Gil Grissom stared at the ticking hands of his watch; every circle around the number twelve an added minute since Nick had left. Another sixty seconds of second-guessing so many things. He rubbed at his angry knee and cursed his lack of physical prowess. When had things gotten so complicated? When was he ever going to destroy that filter between his brain and mouth?
Losing the prison guard was just another nail in the coffin. He grimaced at his poor choice of irony. It all went back to last May. And to a certain extent from his decisions regarding the ex-cable man who sat a few feet away from him, staring at him through thick-rimmed glasses. The supervisor wondered if it was through those that Crane filtered his imaginary world. What did he see from behind those frames?
"You underestimate Nick."
Grissom shifted slightly, not interested in playing with the wannabe puppet master. "You've never been more wrong," he answered.
"You don't know him."
Grissom felt compelled to stare at Nick's blood on his pants. He ran his fingers over the crusted fabric. "Neither do you," he stated, fascinated by it somehow.
Crane leaned forward with an expression of triumph. "You admit it though. That he's a mystery to you. Sort of a case you don't understand. Must be frustrating."
He had let Nick go into a pit of piranhas, because he lacked the words to stop him...to get through. Just like when Nick returned to work after the summer and had left his office after the Kelly Gordon case. He let opportunity slip through his fingers.
Words failed him.
A year ago, Nick would have listened to him, would have relied on that foundation of trust even if he didn't understand it. That was what faith in others was all about. A bedrock of mutual respect and confidence.
"Don't know why he ever looked up to you. How could you ever possibly get him?"
What had been the point of getting his guys back if he couldn't learn to talk to one of them? Any of them? Walter Gordon's voice haunted him in his sleep. What does Nick Stokes mean to you?
He didn't answer Gordon because how could he ever articulate a question like that into words. Part of him still wondered if it was the guilt of not knowing how to respond. Because he didn't know until then. Until it was almost too late.
"I understand Nick. I know what disappointment can do. We have this bond, this connection you'll never realize."
Grissom took his flashlight and clicked it to high and shined it right in the man's eyes, shutting up his tirade. "Everyone feels somehow connected when they speak to Nick. It's who he is. It's one of his pillars of strength. You're just one of many who have felt at ease around him."
The janitor shook his head. "No. I wasn't just some cable guy he felt obligated to talk to. We...we shared something." The inmate stood up and stormed over towards the criminalist.
"He saved me. He didn't want me to die...he...didn't want to lose our special bond." Nigel Crane towered over the supervisor, animated, angry.
"You see something in Nick that lacks in your life: the ability to care for others. To act selflessly." Grissom spoke, even if his mind told him not to feed into the man's delusions, into arguments fought within the prisoner for years.
Crane ran his hand through his thinning hair. "I killed for him." He looked at the other man. "I still would."
"Can you do something greater?" Grissom found himself challenging the other man. A stupid and reckless thing to do.
The inmate squinted, clearly confused.
"Can you imagine being in his shoes?" The supervisor felt as if he had reached a great epiphany...swallowing hard as it all came down around him.
Nigel didn't give a snappy comeback.
Grissom stared at his watch as he struggled to stand with one bum leg. After some difficulty he looked over. "Let's go find him."
Nigel Crane looked ready to argue, but acquiesced to the authority of the other man. "Don't hobble around too slowly, or I'll leave you behind," he muttered.
Grissom ignored how stiff and painful his knee screamed at him from the movement. He did the best he could to remain mobile, using the walls as support. No matter how much it hurt him, he'd keep up. Grissom wasn't about to let another situation transpire that he'd regret.
Nick kept his back towards the wall, eyes forward, his left arm out behind his body to make sure no one tried to sneak up on him. Of course it didn't keep him from constantly stealing glances behind his shoulder, ears on full alert for sounds. It wasn't tough. The corridor was deadly quiet. If it was nauseating fun for him to navigate these halls, it certainly was for the prisoners as well. He imagined that this was the last place they would want to be caught.
From his calculations, half of them were still strapped in their beds, the others too scared to leave the confines of their cells, or were not interested in venturing out to cause trouble. The scary thing was that there was a possible twenty or so inmates loose inside the fourth floor, and eventually they would find their temporary sanctuary.
Nick rounded a corner and froze at the scatter of feet at the opposite end of the hall. He felt the brick behind him, body pressed against the wall. Red, angry snapshots of the hallway every five seconds. There in the distance someone cautiously roamed away from his position. Someone small, but still a threat. He kept his breathing even and calm. Just a little bit further if Nigel's instructions were correct. Of course the person's office he sought was most likely the man responsible for all of this. How convenient to have
a lair on the same floor of those he studied.
Studied.
Dr. Rhodes didn't think of these inmates as people... as patients. Just another set of numbers on a file folder. A set of mood disorder fill-in-the-blanks that he tested logical theories and mind-altering drugs on to see what worked. Except wasn't that the problem with mental illness? Nothing neat or ordered about them. Psychology was a science about one of the most unpredictable things. Human behavior.
Nick peered down the next hall as he focused at the task at hand. He needed to get this done so he could get back to Grissom. Then maybe track down Franco or any of the other missing staff that 'had' to be around here. He counted silently to ten before taking off, noting the lone prisoner off the radar so to speak.
Red Flash. Blackness.
Red Flash. Blackness.
He exhaled, hand touched the wall for guidance, when his foot connected with something on the floor and Nick tumbled right over it.
Instinctively he scrambled away, breathing harshly, heart galloping away inside his chest. Nick waited. Red splash of color, the form of a body, then darkness. He reached out with his hand, felt warm flesh through cotton. Another five seconds then a glimpse of pale skin, blond hair, closed eyes.
Nick looked around in between intervals of sight. Alone in the hall for now. He scrambled closer; fingers reached for a pulse and stopped when he felt none. Head bowed, Nick cursed silently, while the investigator in him looked for the COD. The next sixty seconds spliced up by 12 rapid-fire glimpses. Scrub top, plain white slacks. ID badge missing, just a plain a silver chain around the neck. Some poor staff member caught during the rampage. No blood, no visible wounds.
He wanted to stay to protect the body, find out who this poor soul had been. Nick tried his best to memorize the young male, probably in his thirties. Nick wiped at his face, grimacing slightly as he touched his bruised jaw. Time was ticking away. How many more would die as the siege went on? Nick stood up reluctantly. He searched the darkness and moved onward, a few hundred feet more.
His hand still brushed along brick, eyes darting around the empty space in front until he found the wooden door. Cautiously, he approached the office like he would any potential scene. Nick tested the doorknob, part of him expecting it not to work, when it twisted, tumblers clicking. The door moved forward as he controlled how far. One inch, then two. He peered just inside to find another blackened room.
Red flash right on time. Quick check behind the door, another careful glance to his left. Then his right. Nick turned his head, no one behind him, no more bad horror movie moments. He closed the door, back against it for protection. Solid wall of black, his eyes adjusted as he stood there, waiting to focus on anything.
Outlines of objects; desk, chair, couch to his right. Tiny green light from the object of his quest. The phone sat next to the computer, the screen still had the faintest glow of illumination. Nick took out his cell phone, flipped it open to allow the screen saver there to lead him the way. One foot in front of him, then the other. He froze when he heard it.
Breathing. Erratic, heavy, and not his own.
Nick meticulously shifted his hand, the glow of his cell phone only giving him the illusion of light. Tiny snippets of surroundings. With his ears he searched out the source of the heavy in and exhales of a fearful person. Towards the couch, in the space between the sleek leather and wall. Carefully, Nick switched hands with the phone, and snagged the name plaque from the oak desk.
With his weapon in hand, he approached the source of the noise, prepared for anything. Nick got closer one step at a time; as he circled one side of the sofa, the faint luminescence of his phone helped reveal a hulking body hidden behind it. The slightest aura of mixed light sources reflected in the irises of a set of eyes, followed by a garbled shout.
Nick knew the lunge was coming before it happened. The criminalist struck the man right along the right side of his face with a sickening crack. The attacker cried out in pain as he stumbled away slightly. Nick held the nameplate firm, arm loose for another swing if need be. He directed his cell, his pathetic light source, around as the suspect backed away, hand clamped over his face.
"I told you about my animal," the man growled.
Nick followed the inmate step by step, the voice and use of words familiar. The light of red flashes confirmed that he just discovered where Robert Patterson had been lurking.
"Back away and put your hands on your head," Nick instructed in a soft, but firm voice. No need to alert more people.
Patterson laughed at him as he rubbed his bashed face. "You don't want to play with him? With my beast?" the man growled.
Nick shook his head. "Nah, man, not really. Why don't you just calm down."
"I was denied. My animal fed and I was denied. But not again," he taunted, as he leered at the CSI.
Nick braced for it as Patterson came at him again with reckless and uncontrolled fury. Nick dropped his cell phone, and stopped the wild charge. The primitive weapon still in his hands, he grabbed one fistful of jumpsuit and slammed the inmate onto the desk. Patterson fought and wrestled with him as Nick shoved the man's body along the expanse of wood and slid the inmate across the top. The prisoner was tossed to the floor, scattering the contents of the surface of the desk with him.
Nick pinned Patterson's left arm with his knee and used the weight of the nameplate along the man's sternum, shoving hard. "Stop fighting me," he tried to order the other man.
Patterson squirmed and growled, his body twisting on the floor. Nick pressed harder and used his body weight to subdue the prisoner. It was like wrangling a bull; the man bucked and kicked at him. Before long he wrestled away from the CSI and took a wild swing at him. Nick dodged the fist and moved out of the way. With precious time slipping away, his training kicked in and Nick put the man into a familiar chokehold.
His arm screamed at him as it wrapped under the man's windpipe, Nick's left hand holding his elbow in place. White-hot fire ripped through his arm, and his eyes watered, but he still squeezed harder. Patterson tried to shake the Texan away, but quickly fell to his knees, his struggles weaker. The prisoner gasped and sputtered. A lazy arm uselessly swatted at the criminalist, but Nick held on.
Nick felt his muscles shake; sweat soaked his back, face and neck. Patterson slackened from the lack of oxygen. Finally the man succumbed and Nick let go as Patterson slowly slumped to the floor. Nick took a moment to breathe, to allow his pulse to slow down. He gasped. He had unknowingly held his own breath, the veins along the side of his head still beating wildly.
After gaining his composure he checked the man's pulse and felt a slow but steady rhythm. Nick stood on shaky legs, droplets of sweat tickled down his forehead. He sucked in another raspy breath, as his arm blossomed with fresh pain. Nick felt the fresh stickiness of blood soak his bandage.
He'd torn even more stitches. He shook his head, knowing it could wait. Nick searched the ground for his cell phone, and looked around at the carnage on the floor. Objects had been strewn all over the place. Nick sighed at the task at hand. He cradled his arm once again and carefully stepped around the debris. Squinting in the darkness he stood there waiting for the familiar burst of red illumination to help acclimate his surroundings.
Red flash. Darkness.
There it was further along the floor. The damn phone. Nick took a step, then felt a beefy hand squeeze his shoulder just as a strange sharpness was driven into his lower back.
Red flash.
Then a howl of pain when the strange pinch exploded into a terrible rip. His scream past his lips, Nick was left gasping.
Some foreign object was sheathed into his right flank. For the worst five seconds of his life, he felt the strong hand keep him still, the object digging deeper into the small of his back.
Then it slipped out and both his legs crumpled, unable to stand any longer. Nick dropped like a dead weight to the floor, his hand grasping at his back, searching for the source of such intense affliction. Sprawled out like some rag dummy, legs failing weakly, his right hand came back with just the smallest amount of blood. Surely this kind of agony meant he should be covered in it.
Nick didn't have the luxury to analyze his situation. A set of hands pulled him by the collar of his shirt and he was thrown back along the empty desk. Nick felt his body slide, gravity beckoning him to the ground. An arm pressed against his chest, the meaty limb pinned him atop the desk. His legs wouldn't support him as they weakly trembled.
Nick quaked as the face of Ivan loomed over him. The man held something metal right in front of his face. The CSI sort of gazed at it, lost in a sea of pain.
Red Flash. Darkness.
In between intervals of light and black he scarcely made out Dr. Rhodes' precious gold pen. It was covered with his blood. Ivan's scraggly face and mane of unkempt hair hung over him; some of the wisps tickled his face. Dark eyes peered at him as he jabbed the pen under his chin.
"Where is he?" the Russian whispered, eyes darting wildly side to side.
Nick sucked in a breath, unable to keep from crying out. His entire back was nothing but bright pain, clear from his spine to his stomach. His rapid inhalation just intensified the agony. All he wanted to do was slip into nothingness.
Ivan drove the pen under his jaw. "Where is the Blue Eyed Devil?"
Tears welled up in his eyes; gut punched and kicked in the back didn't begin to describe his body. He didn't speak, just tried to focus on breathing. He stared at his tormentor, at the cold lifeless eyes. The left side of the man's cheek spasmed and Nick knew he was under the influence of whatever drug had been slipped to him earlier.
Ivan secured his brutish left arm against the top of his chest and dragged away the expensive pen. He twirled the instrument between his fingers. "Hurts doesn't it?"
Nick groaned, his body trembled. "Please," he begged, not caring how it sounded.
"Where is he?" Ivan asked again.
How could a man under the influence of something be this controlling? Nick wondered, as he tried to beat back the pain. He was failing miserably.
The giant smiled at him. "Maybe your screams will lead him here."
Nick didn't know how to respond; he just shook his head back and forth.
"When an animal is trapped, it tries to protect itself, da?"
The Russian took the writing instrument and guided it down Nick's heaving chest. "It tries to protect its vulnerable belly." He let the metal pen drift down towards Nick's abdomen.
Nick tried to wiggle away, but any movement just made him cry out, the pain excruciating.
Ivan pressed the sharp end of the makeshift dagger right below Nick's navel. "So very painful. How many holes can you take?" He smiled and leaned in, his sour breath over his face. "I would like to know how long you could endure," he taunted.
Nick managed to claw at the brute weakly with his fingers.
"The screams. They are so loud." Ivan stood to his full height. "I don't mind. I love to hear it. Like Tchaikovsky."
Nick groaned, panting back agony. "Go to Hell," he spat out.
The Russian's grin widened. "I am."
Nick closed his eyes and waited for the next stab, but was rewarded with a light beneath his closed lids. He flicked them open to see the room cast in a high beam of light.
"Stop it!"
It was Grissom's voice and Nick didn't know to be relieved or even more terrified. Ivan turned around, the pen never wavering. "He's here," he whispered.
Grissom hobbled inside, Nigel scurried to the corner. The Russian darted his eyes at the two new visitors.
"Let him go." Grissom commanded.
Ivan's stared at the supervisor, his eyes drifting towards the injured young man. "I should set him free. Cut the bonds."
Grissom stepped closer, eyes wavering briefly at Nick, but focused on the hulking prisoner. "Nick isn't tethered to me. He's been on his own a long time."
"He should be rid of you. Of your evil influence," Ivan said as he moved his deadly weapon back over to Nick's throat. "One hole and it would be quick."
Grissom licked his lips and moved the beam of light over Ivan's face. "Nick hasn't needed to be under my influence for a long time."
The Russian rested the end against the beating pulse along the young criminalist's neck.
"What do you want?" Grissom asked, a slight falter to his usually stoic voice.
"To finish the game. To deal with the Devil."
Nick fought to follow the conversation as much as he could, but it was so hard to battle anything with his back on fire. He saw his supervisor look at him, and gave the young man a nod to hold on.
"Then let's play the game, but you can't harm him," Grissom instructed.
"G-grissom," Nick stuttered not exactly liking what he heard.
Ivan was captivated as he nodded. The Russian removed the pen and let it drop to the ground. He took his right hand and patted the side of Nick's face. "Your master and I will play now." The Russian grabbed part of Nick's hair and slammed the back of his head back hard against the desk.
"Stop it!" Grissom bellowed.
Ivan stood back while Nick slumped to the ground unconscious. The man wasted no time and grabbed Grissom by his shirt collar and hauled him around. The older man was barely able to keep his feet under him. He jerked the supervisor over to where Crane remained transfixed by the drama.
Ivan yanked the smaller man by his jumpsuit with his other hand. "I said nothing about you, Broom Man."
Crane let himself get manhandled but still managed to smile. "I'm here for Nick. I don't care about your games."
Ivan slammed the janitor along the wall a few times, enjoying himself. "Is he yours?"
Nigel adjusted his glasses. "He's my friend. He came here to see me."
Grissom tried to pry the meaty hand away from his collar without success. He stared at Crane, warning him back. The Russian knocked Crane's glasses off and let him go. When Nigel bent down to pick them up Ivan kicked him in the knee, laughing as the man tumbled to the ground.
"Fine, little man. The Devil's puppet is yours. Do with him as you wish." Ivan grinned wickedly.
Crane returned the smile, rubbing at his knee.
Grissom struggled as he was dragged out; his feet scrambled for purchase, no match for the giant. "You can't leave Nick with him. Wait!" Grissom grappled with the strong grip, as he was forced out of the room.
The last thing Grissom saw was Nigel Crane waving at him as he held onto the flashlight, leaving behind the criminalist he had failed to protect.
A/N at my bio