A/N: Kristen is unfortunately without an internet connection until Monday. She asked I post this so as not to make anyone wait. Replies to your reviews to this and the previous chapter will come as soon as possible. (everybetty)
He felt so tired, the heaviness of his head a weight that caused his neck to cramp up. He wanted to shift to his side, sink the side of his face into the soft down of an over-sized pillow, but the muscles along his shoulders were too stiff to allow for any relaxation. That's when he realized that he wasn't snug along a firm mattress, or even laying down. His body ached, it hurt a bit to breathe, sort of an effort to do so. His knee was killing
him; obviously it wasn't horizontal.
The main thing that caused his head to jerk up in alarm was the numbness to his arms. His back twisted up in knots, only adding to his impending migraine. He sucked in a breath, all of his senses zapping back at once.
Grissom suppressed an urge to groan and settled for peeling back waxy, glued eyelids. The room sort of swam into view; all he saw was the now familiar blackness of nothing. Like someone stole the stars from the night, a lone localized light source several feet to his right. The restricted movement coupled with the prickly sense of his arms merged into one giant sensation. His brain's battery sort of surged from milliamps to volts, and he pulled his head all the way up.
Grissom's eyes focused and looked down at his body. He blinked several times, the light in the room unchanged, his aches still prominent. The expected view of his button up shirt, replaced by the off color beige of a straitjacket. His chair squeaked along the tile with his jarred movement.
Panic...not exactly, but definitely surprise. Oh, yes. Grissom felt an adrenaline rush so unexpected that the shock was alien to him. Pulse rate and blood pressure though the roof no doubt, but with some effort, with eighty seconds, he found the Zen calm that so many others expected out of him at every moment of the day. It always took some effort and even now, a brutal battle, but once he felt his breathing even out he could rely on his
mind to study the situation.
Serene and peaceful images of nature and the microcosm of the insect world soothed him when it was needed, followed by complex mathematical equations as he recalled the notes to Beethoven's Seventh.
Reflexes were forgiven when it came to these kinds of moments. He tried to shift arms that were forced under one another. He visualized his limbs inside long sleeves that were strapped behind his back, imprisoning them. His restraints were wrapped tightly, another sort of restriction to his diaphragm. He sat in a plastic orange chair, probably from one of the offices. The supervisor looked up, his ears trained on the odd noise from out of sight.
Clipping sounds? No. He leaned further, not too far or he'd fall out, and that would be very bad. Small wonder he had not been tied down to the chair as well.
Definitely some sort of tearing...fabric maybe. Sheets? Grissom heard the rips, so soft, so subtle, the sounds drifted from the light source. Obviously Ivan was around. He still couldn't recall how he had ended up like this. Probably got knocked along the thick side of his skull at some point.
Wait.
Grissom shook his head. He was back in the showers.
Did everyone come here to hide out?
Maybe Nick had been right not to want to stick around. That they would have all been sitting ducks. The name of his colleague instantly brought out images of the younger man isolated with a psychopath.
Grissom exhaled deeply, eyes tight against any images of the shadow-casted room. Nick was trapped with Crane, alone with his stalker. A man prone to violent fits, delusional behavior. He felt the tip of his tongue bat around the sharp ends of his teeth.
He should have taken Nick off the case with the first signs of trouble. Maybe Nick had too many brushes with unstable people, two of which used him for their own exploits. Nick would have hated the special treatment, but so what? Not like the CSI didn't resent anything he did nowadays, probably with good reason.
He gnawed at his lip as his eyes adjusted to his prison. If he kept up the pretenses, if he didn't notice any changes then eventually they would work themselves out. If he treated Nick like nothing happened, maybe the criminalist would start to believe it too. He'd seen the changes at work. The man's withdrawal, certain physical and behavioral changes.
Who was he to point them out? What if Nick coped in his own way? If all that the criminalist did was change his appearance and act a bit less emotionally, well wasn't that what he always wanted? For Nick to become more distanced, to be less connected.
Grissom sighed. Then he wouldn't be Nick at all.
Ignoring everything around him in the hope it would all work itself out had failed. He had failed. Not taken any responsibility for anything afterwards, and now he'd lost Nick, possibly the very day he took that tape and hid it from him. Or the day when Nick returned to work and they all went back to their everyday routines, because really, wasn't stability all the man needed?
It was over. Everything was resolved. Everyone was dead. No one left to haunt the man from that pit underground. If he told Nick it was over, then Nick could accept. Move on. Except it wasn't that simple. Not like pushing a button, and the moment he let Nick walk out of his office without another word was the day he made the wedge between them permanent.
The ripping sound continued, followed by running water from one of the shower stalls. Movement within shadows. If he slipped away where would he go? Blind as a bat in the Mad Hatter's lair.
Who was to say Ivan wouldn't simply track him down? Damn, he wished had dug further into the Russian's medical dossier. Might have proved a bit more useful now.
Leverage; he needed it with the savage that held all the cards. His head swam a bit; he still didn't recall how he ended up like this. Maybe the Russian grew tired of yanking him around the halls, of his orders not to leave Nick alone with Crane. What had he been thinking?
He hadn't… he'd been reacting. It wasn't everyday he felt so out of control.
The sounds of the water stopped.
He braced himself as best he could. Jutted out his chin, allowed his eyes to follow the moving silhouette.
A hulking figure approached, the beam of light bounced along with the beastly man. Grissom cocked his head as Ivan approached coolly. The Russian sort of played around with his flashlight, the shadows bouncing around the surrounding areas. He stepped in front of the supervisor and rested his hand on the older man's shoulder, resting the light along Grissom's lap.
The flashlight's beam shined along the east wall, but the overall aura was enough to see that Ivan had been busy. The prisoner leaned over him, his face marred by blue and blackish tinges of skin, broken blood vessels and ugly discoloration.
His raggedy mane was gone, tufts of uneven hair still stuck out along a badly shaved head. Nowhere to find a professional razor around here. There were multiple cuts along Ivan's scalp; bloody, oozing wounds from whatever he used to hack his hair off. He looked like some plastic doll that some rabid kid had yanked out all the strands of hair from and left some spots untouched.
Ivan's beard was gone, leaving badly mangled cheeks and chin. Blood from open sores, soapsuds still around his ears, and stubble along the left side of his chin; obviously the caveman haircut had been done without a mirror. The Russian rubbed at spotty patches of smooth skin, smearing droplets of red all over a pale face.
"I make good barber, da?
The werewolf had transformed to Frankenstein. Grissom didn't respond, he simply stared.
Ivan squatted until he was at eye level again, this time their positions reversed from earlier. He stared, eyes transfixed by something. Grissom's silence didn't seem to agitate the man very much. The Russian pulled out a large scalpel, running the blade almost lovingly along the edges of his mouth, tracing an outline.
"I've been saving this for a special occasion. You think the docs would count their sharp instruments. I swiped this from under their pretty noses months ago," Ivan whispered. "In the meat packing plants, the air was filled with stinking rotting flesh, blood puddles all over the floor." Ivan breathed in deeply, "The smell of death was so soothing after hours of carcasses and my machete.
I'd watch as the blood washed down the drain." The Russian held out his palms and showed Grissom his blotchy skin. "Your student's was sticky and warm, but I cleaned it away. Pity."
Grissom counted silently in his head. He hadn't gotten close enough to Nick to know if he had been injured. He looked down at his lap, really taking note of the Maglite lying there. "Where did you get the flashlight, Ivan?" Maybe if he got him talking about other things besides violent fantasies he'd buy some more time.
Laughter filled the shower stalls. "I take whatever I want. Someone had it, and I didn't stop squeezing their throat until their eyes popped out of their head. Then the light was mine."
Grissom didn't express how revolted he felt at the moment. "You killed a man for a flashlight?"
"Nyet. I wanted the light and took it. I killed him because I wanted to."
The entomologist felt the pinpricks along his hands intensify; he balled them up to keep the feeling intact. He continued his distractions. "You haven't killed in a long time. Several years, why now?"
The Russian lifted Grissom up from the chair by two of the fabric straps. Ivan stood to his full height and sort of dangled the restrained man inches from his seat. Manic eyes relished in the display. "Do you like your new suit?"
Grissom didn't feel totally lost; his feet still touched the ground as he was jerked around some more. It aggravated his bruised muscles, and his heart rate was creeping up, but now wasn't the time to worry about that. "It gives you an advantage. Do you like seeing someone else in one of these?"
Ivan slammed the CSI back into his seat, almost knocking the scientist down along with his chair. "The zip-up-jacket is just another instrument that they use." Ivan shook his grotesque head. "They thought they could change me. Control me."
"You volunteered to come here," Grissom prodded, shifting slightly in his chair.
Laugher filled the room. "Games. Love to play with all the white coats. Smell their stinking fear, but most of all, I smell their need to know what it's like."
Dark eyes gleamed, as the man wet his lips. "Secretly, everyone wants to taste death. To feel what it's like to control and play with it. Watch men change before your very eyes when they face mortality and welcome it." Ivan squeezed Grissom's shoulder. "In my freezer they begged for death. Until I granted them what they could not bring themselves to ask before I took them and slung them on my pretty hooks."
"You tortured them," Grissom corrected him.
Ivan ran the edge of his scalpel along the fabric of the straitjacket; the blade tore into the thickly woven fabric. "I made them sing the notes of Tchaikovsky. Too bad I didn't get a chance to listen to your youngling. I think his voice would have sounded more exquisite than the good doctor's. Maybe I'll go back and play with him and the gold pen some more."
"Nick isn't part of this," Grissom warned.
"The fire grows inside the Devil's eyes," Ivan said awestruck. The metal of the scalpel glinted along the beam of light that had clattered to the floor. The Russian brushed it along Grissom's beard.
"You came to me the other night. Your beastly red body, horns covered in blood, fire blazed all around. Burning all around us. You wanted to throw me in your fiery pit. I resisted you. Until you took human form, but I saw your blue eyes, and I tore your human body apart," Ivan raved, his guttural voice heavy.
Grissom strained to understand the words smothering under the now heavy-laden accent. Ivan was transfixed by the memories that he rambled on.
"To be bathed in blood again… you wanted to remind me what it was like." Ivan flicked the razor along the CSI's beard.
Grissom flinched as he felt the scalpel along his face, the edge stripping away hair and skin, tiny cuts left in its wake. Ivan's grip on his shoulder intensified as the Russian peered down at him. "I set you free, but you still came for me!" the brutish man growled.
Grissom tried to squirm away as the inmate ranted about killing Dr Kincaid. "I saw you for the first time when you woke up. You were drugged, just like you are now." It was pointless, but Grissom didn't know what to do with faced with lunacy except to go back to the safety of reason and fact.
"No! Your blue eyes still try to hunt me down," he bellowed. Ivan took the scalpel and caressed the side of the CSI's face until it rested under Grissom's left eye socket. "If I cut this out first, will you be satisfied?"
Grissom's breath froze, the point of the blade rested under his lid.
"When I'm done with you, I'll gut your youngling as well. Sever your ties to his early soul and set him free from your control."
"Nick isn't mine to control. He never was," Grissom hissed, risking damage to his face by moving muscles to talk.
Ivan's grin widened. "I do whatever I want in here. This is my Hell. If I want to send your student into the flames of death, then I will."
"No, you won't."
Ivan lowered his blade and stood up to confront the new voice. Grissom blinked, letting out a long exhale. Ivan stepped away from his prisoner and stared into the darkness.
Grissom twisted around as much as possible. Another flashlight beam bounced around as its owner approached.
The Russian's loud belly laugh echoed inside the chamber of tiles as Grissom squinted in confusion. Nigel Crane strolled into the shower stalls, stupid broomstick in one hand, and the light in the other. He stopped a few feet away from both men, his face difficult to read in the shadows. One thing was unmistakable: his tone of voice.
"You won't do anything to our guests," Nigel taunted.
Ivan didn't budge, his face betraying the affront he obviously felt. He chuckled. "It's the Broom Man. I'm not ready for your services just yet. When I need you to mop up the blood, I'll let you know."
Nigel tapped the wooden handle of his weapon to the floor. "Ivan. Ivan." Crane shook his head. "Tsk, tsk. tsk. Always the schoolyard bully. Why don't you go find a bear to wrestle or something worthy of your intelligence? Maybe ice fishing."
Grissom watched the giant of a man simmer where he stood. The supervisor strained to see if Nigel came alone, wondering where Nick could be. No way the Texan would let Crane out of his sight.
"I will snap you like twig," Ivan seethed in a throaty menace.
Nigel held his hand to his stomach as he laughed hard. After a few moments he got his hysterics under control and shoved his glasses back up on his face. "Who talks like that? What are you a washed up Neanderthal?"
Ivan's nostrils flared along with the arm that trembled with barely contained rage. Grissom saw the man's face flush, the scalpel clutched tightly between his fingers. The supervisor didn't know what deadly game Nigel was playing, but if he wanted to piss off the Russian he had met with success.
The janitor took a few more steps closer, casually, like he was out for a stroll. He didn't look at Grissom just peered upward at the larger, hulking man. "You know how many times you shoved me against walls? Slapped me around when no one was looking? Hmmm?"
Ivan's face betrayed the giddiness of those memories.
Crane wasn't done by a long shot. His pitch and voice grew with every hate-filled word and recollection. "What about the others? The people you growled at and tormented with your mangy face. Some of the other inmates that you stole food from or beat when you weren't in proper restraints. I may just be a cleaner on this floor, but the one thing I know best to do is watch and learn."
Nigel shined the flashlight right into Ivan's eyes. "People always take me for granted." The janitor looked over at the CSI. "Don't they?"
Before Grissom could respond, Crane clicked off his flashlight. The man disappeared in the blink of an eye, stunning the enraged Russian. Ivan screamed in his mother tongue, obviously cursing at the impish man. He didn't even try to grab his own flashlight as he stomped into the darkness in pursuit.
It wasn't until the beast was out of sight that Grissom's training picked up on something he had missed while mesmerized by the drama.
Breathing. Sounds of people. Steps, movement, and the odor of other bodies. Before he comprehended what was going on, he heard the unleashing of pent-up aggression. A volley of cries, and screams of attack.
Grissom stood up, lost in the blackness of an invading horde of vengeance. The mixture of fists, flesh, and of a group laying siege against a cruel tormentor. Grissom felt his feet moving him away from the sounds of the scuffle, the scent of fresh blood, of violence filled the damp air. As he stumbled away from the noise, he felt a hand on his shoulder. The CSI whirled around, ready to shove a shoulder into any inmate.
"You sure are jumpy," Nigel snorted.
"Crane," Grissom stated as his eyes darted around in search of the evidence of his ears.
"Just ignore it all. Nothing to see here. No crime to document that anyone will care about."
Grissom struggled with his straitjacket, not comfortable around the other man. "What's happening?"
Nigel shrugged his shoulders. "Justice." He cleared his throat. "Though I wouldn't stick around too much. Natives might get carried away and want someone else to unleash their frustrations on."
"Where's Nick?" Grissom demanded.
Crane's face hardened. "I put him somewhere safe. Don't you worry about it."
The supervisor wrestled with his restraints, his arms screaming for release. "Get me out of this thing, Crane."
The janitor cocked his head. "I don't think so. Maybe you should stay in one for now."
Grissom ceased his struggles. "Nigel."
The inmate closed the distance between. "I'm on a first name basis with Nick. Not you. Very rude, you know." Crane gripped one of the straps along the fabric restraints. "Come along now."
Grissom was pulled along, barely able to put any pressure on his leg, his knee now a mass of pain. He hobbled as he was yanked around.
Crane grumbled under his breath. "Knew you'd slow me down. Glad I came prepared." Once they got into the hallway, the man switched on his flashlight and a wheelchair waited them both.
Grissom stared at it, ignoring the screams in the room he just vacated.
"Hop in," Crane instructed him.
"Take me to Nick." Grissom ordered back.
Nigel sighed. "You know Nick might not appreciate how long this is taking. I'm not sure how much he likes tight spaces nowadays. Of course, maybe I'm wrong. After all you did bring him to a prison with cramped hallways and little hole-in-the wall cells."
Grissom took a seat in the wheelchair, his eyes never breaking from the other man's. "You better have not done anything to him, Crane. Or so help me," he threatened.
Nigel chuckled as he pushed the supervisor down the black halls. "I only did what I thought was best for him." He leaned over in the supervisor's ear. "Like what you've been doing, right? Looking after a good friend."