Grissom wrestled with the odd drag of the wheelchair. It was a tedious task to try to move it with his swollen knee and banged-up body, but mostly because the younger CSI was slumped to one side, forcing all of his weight to one area. The result was a constant struggle as well as a vigilant eye that Nick wasn't going to fall out. Sometimes he worried that the man had succumbed to unconsciousness, but those painful gasps of irregular breathing punctuated the silence all around them.
Part of him wanted to tell him that holding his breath like that wasn't really doing anything at all for the pain and was probably doing more harm than good. This time around Nick wasn't going to be at the receiving end of one of his lectures. If it made the man feel better in his mind, then the Texan deserved that small comfort, no matter how false it was.
Crane led the way, using that annoying broken broom handle as some sort of cane, the end tapping every once in a while along the cement, making just enough noise to alert their presence. At least that was his first thought, but Grissom was an observant man and noticed that tiny insignificant noise was some sort of intimidation tactic.
The echo was faint, but striking at the same time. Out of the corner of his eye during the raging lights, he noticed wayward prisoners, the 'tap' enough to send them skittering away, or take heed. If anything Grissom longed for the stick, even though it wouldn't be the correct height for use as a crutch. It would certainly aid his impaired leg.
Nigel should be pushing the chair. It'd be faster, but then there was no way he was going to relinquish control or give the slightest indication of weakness.
Grissom peered down at Nick, and suddenly knew so much more about him.
He pushed harder, screw his pain-he'd just force the nearly unmoving joint along. One more hallway, another turn, no backwards glances from Crane, no slowing down. There was not time.
Then as the pace increased, they entered one more corridor. Crane slowed down, his stride ever more cautious. There was noise up ahead.
They approached the infirmary, and heard a couple prisoners shout at the locked entrance and threaten the occupants inside. Shadows kicked at the door, stalking back and forth before it... Like the restless lions Grissom had feared.
It only took a few seconds until their presence was noticed.
Red flash. Darkness.
Movement between intervals of sight.
That's when the supervisor recognized both men as the guys they had encountered in the stairwell. The Ringleader and Minion A, the one he had tripped, stared at them. Both men gave up on their assault to the door to gawk at the trio.
The Ringleader laughed as he rubbed his hands together. "Looks like the piggies and friend came back for more fun." The man growled softly pointing his finger at Crane. "Owe you one, broom man."
Crane didn't react to the threat, then again the man never did waver in his emotions very much. He looked past the men, seeking the door, then turned to face them. "You're in the way. Why don't you go back to playing hide and go seek?"
The two inmates did not seem easily intimidated and why would they?
One hobbled older criminalist who had not had any physical confrontations in years. Check.
One nearly crippled and barely conscious CSI in a wheelchair. Check.
One deranged psychopathic stalker with stick. Check.
The odds were mathematically in disfavor of the good guys, or for the two law officers. Grissom tightened his grip on the handles, ready to shove Nick out of danger in order to give it his all with the criminals. The one thing that scared him the most was the fact that his co-worker had not reacted to the threat at all. Nick hadn't made a peep recently.
Crane regarded the inmates like a waste of space, sizing them up like the little ants that populated his deranged world. So smug and superior, this was one of the few times that the older man wished that the guy had the brawn to back up his ego. Grissom weighed his options at the standoff, tensing slightly as the red lights flickered for a moment.
Then flickered again.
Grissom maintained his guard, not letting the disturbance affect him as much as it did the other prisoners. The lights' normal patter of fluctuation became more erratic, blinking more rapidly, and out of sync with any sort of pattern. Then the sporadic flashes increased, as did the tension.
Crane stood motionless as the two goons became more skittish, the panic in their mannerisms more acute. Just as it became a crescendo, the lights went out completely; total and complete darkness engulfed all of them. The maddening red finally quiet.
It was all the nut job needed; the little man was swift, Grissom had to give him credit. Then again this was the same 'meek' man who had thrown Nick out a window; agility could out match brawn with the right surprise. Sounds of wood on flesh, the sick sounds of bone and weapon. Then even more terrified noise of fury-the smacks and whacks carried on way too long.
"Enough!" Grissom yelled into the total void.
The motion sliced the air around him, object versus unoccupied space. Only followed by more blind smacks.
"Crane!" he bellowed, until the sounds of silence followed... then heavy breathing.
Grissom moved his hands down to Nick's shoulder; fingers found warm flesh, movement of a trembling body, the sounds of breathing. He squeezed what felt like a shoulder until his ear tickled with a low whisper.
"All the bad wolves fell down."
Grissom held his breath, then exhaled as he heard footsteps pad away from him.
"Why are the lights off?"
And why the hell was he asking Crane?
The supervisor kept from jumping with another hiss to the opposite ear. "I'm not a psychic, though I'd guess that SWAT has just made their dramatic entrance to the building. Might want to get Nick safely tucked away. Perhaps you should ask sweetly... maybe Red Riding Hood might not frighten the staff packed away inside their house."
Grissom had a good memory and pushed the wheelchair closer, hoping he didn't bump into anyone along the way. The supervisor came to a stop, and rifled through his clothes and found his cell phone. He flipped the object open allowing the glow to guide him towards the sought out door. He ramped his hand along the metal.
"This is Gil Grissom of the Vegas Crime Lab. Is there anyone there?" He pounded harder. "Please, this a medical emergency, we're with the Vegas Police department," he huffed.
Not knowing how long the staff inside might have been provoked he slammed his fist against the door, pleading for someone to come open it, identifying himself as loudly as possible.
Grissom waited and repeated his insistence, beginning to worry that they would never get out of the freaking hallway.
"Mr. Grissom?"
The supervisor took a deep breath. "Yes. I'm with the Vegas Crime Unit, we have a medical emergency!" he yelled, chest heaving.
The male voice on other end argued with someone. "It's Angelo. I know who ya are, Man. You alone?"
Grissom was never so happy to hear a familiar person. "Yes, there were a couple of guys out here, but ---well, they are not awake right now."
It was obviously a tough choice, not knowing what went on behind the locked door, not sure if this was a ploy or not. The entomologist didn't want to give anyone time to talk themselves out of anything. "Please. We need help."
More sounds of bickering and he felt his eyes close in frustration. Finally the bolt turned, and the door barely opened. The black man's eyes peered into the corridor, listening and looking. Grissom wrapped his hand along the doorjamb; the man would need to smash his fingers to close it again.
"We don't have time for this," Grissom urged.
He heard the battle-ax nurse's voice rise, arguing. Angelo's eyes narrowed and pulled the door open a bit more, a faint light from inside allowed him to search the now dark corridor. Grissom kept his hands along the jamb and moved enough for the nurse to see Nick in the wheelchair. It seemed proof enough and the medical worker reared the barrier open and stepped into the hallway.
Grissom moved away as the burly man grabbed the handles of the chair and rolled the patient into the infirmary, the supervisor hot on his heels. The older female nurse was ready to slam the door back when Crane put his foot along the post and forced his way past the larger woman.
"Wouldn't want to leave me out in the cold, would you," he whispered in her ear. Then he stepped inside and instantly became passive in the far corner, eyes twinkling. "I'll play nice over here, while you take care of my buddy."
Angelo braked the wheelchair, torn between checking out the ill man and launching himself at the other arrival. Crane held out his hands innocently.
"He's with us. Long story," Grissom intervened, breathless at the concerned staff members. The older man looked back at Crane and then at the two nurses. "I promise he won't harm anyone."
Angelo glared at the docile inmate and then locked eyes with his partner. "Lou, dude's real bad,"' he warned. He crouched in front of Nick, looking back and forth between both critical situations.
The middle-aged nurse glared at Crane and took less than a second with the other criminalist, warning him with her eyes if things got out of hand. Then she hurried towards their patient and helped Angelo pull Nick out of the chair. The ailing criminalist cried out from the movement, too incapacitated to get his feet under him.
The two caregivers struggled with him between their arms as he wailed with pain at every jarring motion.
"All right, take it easy, Dawg," Angelo comforted the battered CSI. With a bit of difficulty they got Nick onto an exam table, the criminalist unwilling to lie on his back as he tried to curl up once again on his side.
Grissom stood back as he leaned along a counter, his mind racing with the newest stimuli. The infirmary had some light from several swivel lamps near the bed. The rest of the room was darkened, no humming of equipment. It was possible the medical ward ran off of some backup generator that wasn't affected by the crisis outside. He crept closer, but stayed out of everyone's hair, his attention split between Crane and his colleague.
Nigel was strangely quiet, body not so relaxed as before. His beady eyes were solely focused on the ongoing procedures in front of them both, his expression hard to decipher. The man seemed oddly fascinated as well as slightly on edge. He didn't feel like psychoanalyzing the stalker, but wondered if the man felt any distress at all for Nick's condition. It almost seemed like he did, or it could be that for once, the sociopath didn't have one iota of control in the medical emergency. He had lost his advantage, and that notion made Grissom nervous.
The stalker faltered for the briefest of moments, his eyes betraying fear, but that brief glimpse into his true self disappeared. Grissom saw plastic lens glare at him. "Nick won't die on me. You'll see."
Nigel Crane slumped to the floor, pushed his knees up like a sulking child and rested his chin on top of them. His gaze now totally transfixed at the activity across from him, Crane sat there. He studied, memorized, and soaked in every moment of Nick's battle with a minuscule amount of glee in his eyes.
Grissom squinted at the random mumblings. Reading his lips the supervisor cringed inwardly.
"You did it for me. Did it just for me. All of it for me."
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Grissom wasn't what one call very animated. No, most of the time it was his eyes that were the most telling; not that he 'did' stare but how he stared. The way his eyebrows arched, how tense the jaw, or flat his lips. Just tiny little fractures, forced into the role of spectator. Not just observer, since he was endowed with plenty of helpful knowledge. Physics, anatomy, biology, his chemistry skills were unchallengeable, but his brain had plenty to keep him occupied, and not in a good way.
Nick for now remained on his side, the back of his shirt rolled up, two lamps had been moved for examination since they lacked the needed harsh illumination. Louretta used a penlight to inspect the wound, Angelo carefully holding Nick so he didn't fidget.
"Right quadrant, around L1, avoided the spinal cord. Looks deep, though," she
explained, casting her light over the rest of Nick's back for any other wounds.
"What about nerve damage?" Angelo questioned, looking over from the head of the exam bed.
The spitfire shook her head. "He's squirming around too much for that." She took her latex gloved hands and squeezed her patient's shoulder. "I know it hurts, sugar. Just lay still, we'll take care of ya."
Nick's response was a garbled plea for relief, face contorted, wet tracks along his face from obvious pain. It would appear he finally gave into his torment. No need to shield it, when he wasn't alone with just his boss and psycho guide.
Louretta snapped Grissom out of his thoughts. "What?" he stammered, not catching the question.
"I said, how long ago was he stabbed?" the testy woman demanded as the male nurse grabbed a blood pressure cuff and slung a stethoscope around his neck.
Grissom glanced at his watch, mind racing. "A little over an hour ago," he guessed. He swallowed hard at the fearful expression of the normally hardened lady.
"We need you to lay on your back, Hon," the caregiver explained as she nodded for her co-worker to carefully roll the CSI over.
Nick snatched her wrist obviously channeling everything into the grip, but it only seemed to faze the woman by its desperateness and not the force in which he was clamping on.
"I'm sorry, Hon. Shhhhhh," she cooed as both of them carefully maneuvered him over.
Nick's groans and fierce cry afterwards made Grissom close his eyes against the image that accompanied it.
The two nurses worked in an odd sort of grace, obviously synced from many years of working together. She took some scissors and cut away the cotton of Nick's shirt, while Angelo listened to the man's chest. His partner shined the light into Nick's pupils.
Angelo took his stethoscope and placed it long the uninjured arm, as he deflated the BP cuff. "Pulse's racing at 140. BP's soarin' at 150 over 100."
The older woman grabbed a bag of saline and began to hang it to a pole that her leg had snagged. She ripped open a package, gathering the IV tubing and patted down the left arm, palpating for a vein. She seemed satisfied. "Gonna sting for just a sec," she said as she began inserting the needle into the man's wrist and making sure the line was untangled.
She looked up finished with her task. "Resps?" the older woman demanded.
"Irregular, 22 BPM. Gonna put him on a mask," he said snagging a portable machine and unwrapping some tubing that lead to a plastic device that he slid over Nick's mouth and nose.
Grissom wasn't lost; O2 via mask was indicative of a low oxygen level. Most likely by the fact that Nick continued to gasp for air, holding his breath at other times. He bit his lip, knowing that Nick's defensive reaction was detrimental, even when trying to give the man much needed comfort he still missed the mark.
Nick panted into the mask; condensation fogging it up, he tried to wrangle his body in any direction to avoid the constant prodding. Pure animal instincts, since the medical workers had not even really touched his stab wound. Grissom found his body leaning closer, hands still keeping him propped up along the counter.
Louretta moved along to the head of the bed and leaned over to speak softly to the distraught man. Her voice was almost sweet, her bedside manner ever reflective of the dire situation. "Nick. Please calm down, and try to breathe a little slower." She looked up at her co-worker.
"Sat's are 86 on 2 liters." Angelo hunkered down. "Take it easy, Dawg. Just let the mask do all the work, a'ight?"
Louretta peered down at Nick who had attached both hands to the railing, squeezing the metal bars so hard that his arms shook. "Nick, sugar. I need you to do me a favor. Angelo is going to get a cup for you to urinate into. Think you could do that?"
Nick shook his head back and forth, agitated some how. The female nurse pursed her lips. "Bust open the cabinets and get out the Diazepam and Morphine."
The woman's glare got the black man hustling. The male nurse grabbed a towel, wrapped up his hand and punched through the glass. He searched franticly, probably hampered by the lack of light. After fussing through several vials handed them to the other caregiver.
Grissom watched her expertly inject two solutions into the IV. She patted the young man's hand. "Nick, I gave you somethin' to help calm you down and try to help with the pain"
Nick's response was ragged groans, his head lolling to one side. Grissom felt his feet moving, dead weights as he stepped closer to the bed. Angelo moved aside, pumping the BP cuff, listening intently.
Hesitant and almost on autopilot because if he thought too hard he'd rationalize that this too was of no help. Grissom hobbled closer and sought out his criminalist's hand, and pried it away from the death grip along the railing. With the sedatives slowly coursing through the man's veins, Nick sort of wrapped his fingers around his boss's offered support.
Grissom didn't say anything; words were trivial, awkward. Nick puffed along the plastic constraint, scared eyes looked at him, and Grissom just gripped the man's hand tighter.
It did something; Nick choked back another sob and closed his eyes. Grissom squinted, feeling terribly inadequate, as ever so slowly Nick's raspy heaving slowed little by little. The man's face was still etched in pain, but seemed to focus at his surroundings.
Both nurses rattled off vitals, giving the ailing man a moment to try to compose himself, the male eying the corner with warning. The supervisor didn't move, didn't open his mouth, he did want he needed to.
"Nick, listen to me, Hon. I need you to pee for me, okay?" the woman asked, the tide shifting to more urgency in her voice.
Brown eyes opened and although pained, he formed semi-slurred words from under the plastic. "I can't. I----I can't, Ma'am."
Louretta sighed heavily. "Call me Lou, sugar." She patted his shoulder. "I'm going to have to get a urine sample. Means I'm gonna have to stick a tube in ya. Gonna be uncomfortable, but it needs to be done."
Grissom sympathized with Nick's next groan. As the medical workers wasted no time in gathering the needed supplies. Louretta grabbed another kit and prepared the catheter and lay it down on a sterile tray. Angelo returned with a heavy pair of scissors as Nick began to get overly agitated despite the sedative.
The supervisor tried to reassure the man as he struggled on the bed, both nurses trying to calm him and prevent further injury. Mortified eyes locked with his and Grissom let go and stepped away. His mind in overdrive he turned around to see Crane staring intently, his enthrallment at the whole tragedy made his stomach burn. Thinking quickly, the older man looked around the room until he spotted one of those partitions.
He moved it along, cutting off the man's view, then with renewed vigor he stepped in front of the curtain and stood, blocking off the moving shadows as the personnel began the procedure.
Crane bristled and stood up. Grissom merely glared at him coolly. The nerdy man huffed, then gave a look of disgust. "Please. I'm not some sick pervert."
The supervisor didn't reward the man with any sort of retort, knowing how much Crane thrived on conflict.
The inmate snorted, then pushed up his glasses. "Merely fascinated with the whole drama."
The silent treatment was unnerving the little man; as he launched into more defensiveness, pacing along the back corner he'd been subjected to remain in. "Been here for three years now...waiting...knowing that, of course...well…" Crane mumbled, his stride indicative of his increased agitation.
The stalker whirled around, then crossed his arms in front of him. "I just wanted to see Nick know what it's like to be exposed." Crane lowered his voice. "To have his pain on view. To experience true humiliation."
The elation reflected behind his glasses and leeched into his tone. Grissom felt his knuckles pop and stared down at them dumbly, never aware that he had balled up his hands, his thumbs crushing his pointer fingers. He lifted his head, jaw moving back and forth and took slow deliberate steps towards the inmate. Crane narrowed his eyes, posture tense, waiting for the reaction.
Grissom held the other man with a slow, methodical, gaze. He arched an eyebrow, his voice paper thin, "Only those closest to Nick would know how utterly wrong you are. You'll never know his true resiliency, never understand that bearing witness to that kind of pain is something that no true friend would ever want to experience. It's haunting, terrifying for those who really care, so much so that you're changed forever."
Grissom moved closer causing Crane to hit the counter behind him. "Obviously, you're the same little man seeking vindication in others. Getting your pleasure from the pain from your victims..." Grissom blocked the inmate's view of anything over his form. "Well, you won't get that now."
Nigel wiggled, backed away into the far corner by the door. "No, no, you're all wrong. I-I don't want...I-I I'm sorry he's hurting. Nick's...he's my friend, he came to get my help."
Crane began babbling on and on, staring at the floor while he argued with himself. Grissom eyed him warily, aware of all the commotion from behind the partition. It seemed that the ex-cable guy had gone back to sulking and muttering, slouching in the corner lost in his own deranged world. He watched as the disturbed man went on and on. Torn, he went back towards the little private area he'd created and stepped towards the edge of the curtain, one eye on Nick's care, the other on his problem.
Nick had been covered by a sheet, his body more relaxed and mercifully calmer under the haze of blissful narcotics. His breathing was more at ease, steady and slow. His more peaceful state was the exact polar opposite of the two nurses who monitored him. Feeling the tension he took note of a few things that he'd been too preoccupied before to really notice. As a scientist he knew things were bad, but with the lack of light and time, was unable to really observe the extent of the problem.
Nick's face was drained of color, pale and waxen. The man had gotten considerably weaker, borderline unresponsive, as they had searched for the infirmary. Constant relentless pain had taxed the body of its resources to the point that Nick was incapable of supporting his own weight. Both nurses caught him staring there, silent and lost.
Loretta whispered something to the other nurse who nodded and began to listen to Nick's heart again. The old battle tank looked a bit frayed and worn around the edges. Grissom knew...he understood that the nurse did, too. Why else had she turned so suddenly soft when they came in?
Louretta stood before him the bearer of bad news. "There's blood in the Foley."
Grissom nodded.
The lady took pity on him, glancing back, but she seemed to sense that the man before her would only appreciate cold hard facts.
"We're talking about definite renal damage, probably a type two injury. I'm guessing laceration to the kidney, probably injury to a major vessel."
Grissom knew it in his gut, but solemnly nodded. "What---I mean. What's his prognosis?"
Louretta took a glance at her patient. "The kidney has a protective sheath that shields it. I've been around the block. From his pallor I know about how many units he's lost. I think the sheath closed up and he's still bleeding internally. His BP and pulse are rapid because his heart is pumping to try to keep up with the volume loss."
Grissom found his voice, it was steadier than he imagined. "It won't keep up for much longer. Soon he'll just bleed out."
The nurse frowned. "I'm afraid so. As he gets worse his pulse and pressure will get astronomically high, then...well then both will fall very rapidly. Once his pressure bottoms out, then we'll lose him. We can't perform surgery here. Not a large enough ward to require an operating area."
"How long?" He hated his empirical mind.
"Less than an hour, maybe sooner." The older woman let her words sink in for a moment before her next question. "You two close?"
Grissom felt compelled to stare, eyes tracking, and mind locked on hold. He said nothing, just wandered over towards the bed, and stood there.
Angelo adjusted the IV and glanced over at the older man. "He's really out of it. He can still talk for a little bit, but we wanted to ease his pain."
Grissom fumbled for a response, grappled with something wise and soothing for his criminalist. Something to take it all way, but what could? The supervisor got as close as the railing, his hands faltered along the steel handles.
"Just give his shoulder a slight shake, he'll come to if you want to say something," Angelo offered.
The supervisor just squinted...too completely lost.
The black nurse felt pity for the man. "You know who did this to him?"
Grissom looked into sympathetic eyes and with a sad hollowness simply answered, "I did."