Part II—Eyes Wide

"Bye-bye Celia Mae," Margaret said before turning the corner. "See you tomorrow!"

Celia Mae giggled before she called out to her friend, "Don't forgetto use your cootie spray! You're gonna need it after walking home with Icky Nicky! I hope he doesn't try to kiss you!"

"Eww!" Margaret screamed with laughter.

Nicky felt the blood rush into his face, his temper flaring to life. "Like I'd ever want to kiss you, Margaret! Either of you!" He didn't understand girls or why they were always talking about kissing and then making all those eww and gross noises about it. Not that he would have really wanted to kiss either of them. The thought of kissing anyone, even his mama was starting to make his stomach turn.

Celia Mae stuck out her tongue and jammed her thumbs into her ears to wiggle her fingers. Just watching her do it made Nicky want to pick up the first rock he found and throw it so that it whizzed just past her head, close enough that she could feel the wind of it, close enough that it scared that stupid expression from her face forever. He stopped himself, though, hearing the warning of his mama's voice inside his head.

"You better get on home, Celia Mae," he called after her instead. He wore a smug smirk that stretched his freckled face in condescension. "You better hurry on before the Baby Napper gets you!"

The Baby Napper was the daylight version of the boogey man. All the kids in their neighborhood knew who the Baby Napper was by name, and while none of them had ever been stolen away all one had to do was mention the Baby Napper to invoke fear in a child walking home alone. Nicky called after her in a sing-song voice, "The Baby Napper, Baby Napper! You're gonna get taken by the Baby Napper!"

Maria shoved him from the side, "Shut up, Nicky!"

"Yeah," Celia Mae called from the other side of the street. "Shut up, Icky Nicky."

"Why don't you make me?"

Celia curled her upper lip and snarled, "Why don't you make me?"
"I don't make trash, I burn it!"

"Nicholas!" The sound of his mother's voice from the end of the walk startled him out of fighting mode. "Nicholas, you leave those girls alone and get home right this minute."

If only she hadn't come out on the porch, his squinted eyes seem to say to Celia Mae.

"Bye-bye, Nicky," Celia smiled in such a sickening way that he hoped her face froze that way forever. She was so self-conscious about the way she looked having her face frozen ugly would serve her right.

His mother was watching, her look warning him not to even reply.

"Bye, Mrs. Stokes," she called out in a false, goody-two-shoes song.

"You get on home before I call your mama, Celia Mae!" Nick felt a satisfied grin spread across his face as he stepped up onto the porch. "You too, Margaret. I don't want to have to call up your Gramma and tell her you been starting trouble." Margaret scurried up the street, glancing only once back over her shoulder to see if Nicky and his Mama were still watching. She reached out and tousled her son's black hair. "One of these days you're gonna regret all that fighting, Nicky."

"They started it," he huffed the bangs off of his forehead and brushed past her. "All their talk about kissing and junk. It's just sick."

His mama laughed. "One of these days you'll feel different about that too."

"Not me," he shook his head, turning back to stop the screen door from slamming with his hand.

The scene shifted quickly, as if someone had reached out and sped the hands of time forward. Nicky, his mother and his grandfather were sitting at the dinner table. The only sound was of silver flatware occasionally clanking or scraping against the china. Nicky was piling the peas into a pyramid on his plate, and though she didn't say anything, he could feel his mama watching him. His grandfather cleared his throat. He was just about to scold Nicky for playing with his food when a heavy knock feel on the front door. Both adults moved instinctively and chairs scraped against the hardwood floor.

"I'll get it, Janine, you finish your dinner," his grandfather insisted. "Nicholas, I want to see all those vegetables gone from your plate when I come back."

Nicky swallowed. "Yessir."

He and his mother continued eating in silence while they listened to the muffled voices in the front room. Almost five minutes passed before his grandfather came back but instead of taking his seat, he gestured for Nicky to rise from the table.

"What is it, Dad?" His mother folded her napkin and started to stand up.

Nicky felt a swishing sickness in the pit of his stomach, the kind that usually accompanied knowing you had done something wrong. Only Nicky hadn't done anything wrong, at least nothing he could remember. "Come on, son."

"Dad?"

His grandfather waved her off and shook his head. "I'm sure it's nothing, Janine."

Only it didn't feel like nothing as Nicky was guided into the front room by his grandfather's firm hand. He saw the outline of a figure on the other side of the screen door and squirmed to look up and around at his grandfather. His grandfather didn't look at him, only guided him to the door and pushed the screen open for him to step outside. There was Mrs. Johnson, Celia Mae's mother, her eyes pink around the edges like she'd been crying. She was wringing her dried out hands together in front of her apron, and as soon as she saw Nick those pink eyes grew hopeful.

"Nicky, Mrs. Johnson here wants to know if you seen Celia Mae."

"No, sir," he shook his head quickly. "Not since after school, sir."

Mrs. Johnson took a desperate step toward him, "Are you sure, Nicky?"

"Yes, ma'am." The sickened feeling in the pit of his stomach grew worse with every breath, with every twist of the pink, dried out hands on Mrs. Johnson's apron.

"You didn't see her out here playing at all? She didn't walk by at all?"

"No, ma'am."

"You're sure, Nicky?"

"Now Charlotte," his grandfather intervened, his hand stiff on Nicky's shoulder once again. "The boy said he hasn't seen Celia Mae."

The screen door groaned behind them. "What's going on, Charlotte?"

Her teary eyes turned toward Nicky's mama. "It's Celia Mae," she croaked. "She never came home today after school."

Nicky had been watching his mama when Charlotte Johnson made that announcement. He'd seen the white of her skin grow even more pale with worry. "Oh no," his mama said. "Let me get my sweater, Charlotte. I'll help you look for her."

"Can I help too, Mama?"

His mother and grandfather exchanged sharp glances, and before his mother could answer, his grandfather said, "You get on inside and finish those peas before I tan your hide, young man."

"Yessir," he scurried into the house and took his seat at the table, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn't swallow another pea that night, not even to save his own hide.

Once more the scene shifted. Several weeks had passed since that day, but word was out for all the kids to fear. The Baby Nappers really had taken Celia Mae. Everyone was meant to double up on the walk to and from school, but that afternoon Nicky had been asked to stay after and clap out erasers. He could still smell the chalk dust clinging to the hairs in his nose as he walked home from school. Head down and hands stuffed into his pockets, he watched the pebbles scatter from the tip of his shoes while the weight in his knapsack shifted from side to side with every step.

He was thinking about how he was going to get into trouble if his mother found out he had walked home by himself. Even worse, the paranoia of becoming the Baby Nappers next victim stuck in his dry throat like the dust from those erasers. His heart escalated a few beats more a minute, and he reasoned with himself that if he kept his head down and his shoulders up it would be like he was invisible. Scattered stones skittered, shoes scuffed and the dusty Texas earth left little puffs of dust behind him. The sun was too hot for a jacket, too much like summer and he thought about stopping to take it off and stuff it into his knapsack when the sunlight caught on something shiny not too far away. Nicky turned his head, curious as to what it could be and his footsteps quickened just a little. There was nothing like a little piece of treasure to make a long day worthwhile, he thought.

The sunlight glinted rainbow patterns, as if it shone through fancy cut glass. He knew that it was called a prism, but at the moment he couldn't think of the exact word for it. He had picked up his pace to a jaunt. He could hear kids laughing and screaming somewhere close by and again he thought about getting into trouble. Maybe he should forget about the treasure, but the way glistened seemed as if it were specifically calling out to him. He reasoned that if it were nice enough he could give it to his mama to make her forget about being angry with him for coming home alone.

It was then like a dark cloud or a shadow had passed over the sun, and for a moment everything around him was grey. Nick stumbled to a halt, his mind not quite processing the scene before him, even though it was perfectly aware. The first thing he'd seen had not been the prism that had drawn him in that direction, but the distinct pinkness of a small, bare foot. That bare foot was connected to bare leg, and while his mind raced over the horribly real scene in front of him the sun came slowly out from behind its cloud. It glinted for a moment, caught on the same shining surface that had drawn Nicky in that direction. The dulled gold chain wrapped tight around her fragile wrist in such a way that it had left abrasions on the skin. He tried to look away, but her wide eyed and fearful expression drew him in. Her small mouth was open, and Nicky thought that he heard her screaming. Only later would he learn that those screams had been his own. . .

Nick Stokes jerked awake to the contrived sound of a news reporter's voice, her well practiced sympathy combined with perfectly executed seriousness should have gone straight over his head, but it was the subject matter that had alerted his senses. ". . . classmate discovered the body of seven year old Martina Villanova this afternoon while walking home from school. Villanova was abducted two weeks earlier during her routine walk home from school. Following brief comment from Sheriff Rory Atwater, there are no suspects as of yet, but Atwater has assured us that the police department are working very carefully with the Las Vegas CSI team. . ."

He clicked off the television and ran a trembling hand through his hair. What were the odds, Nick thought. What were the odds that subliminally just hearing of that case in his sleep had turned up the dark memory of Celia Mae Johnson. It wasn't that Nick never thought about Celia Mae. Sometimes he even accredited his passion for forensic science to having discovered that poor little girl the way he had. Sometimes he could still see her face in the faces of all the innocent children they found murdered. Mostly, however, he felt disturbed at the similarity between this new case and the one he had been involved himself. He only hoped that whoever was working on that case took care to remember they were working with children.

vvv

Warrick was seated in front of the computer with his mouth twisted into a curious position when Nick walked in—his hair still wet from the shower. He paused in the doorway and crossed his arms, watching Warrick for several minutes with a slightly bemused grin. Finally, he uncrossed his arms and took a few steps into the office.

"Are you working the Villanova case?"

Warrick's mouth smoothed into its normal shape and he stretched his neck to relieve the cricks and aches of twenty-seven straight hours without sleep. "No, I'm working the Messenger murder with Grissom and Sara. What are you doing here, man? I thought you were on vacation."

"Yeah, well," Nick shrugged and turned a smile into the shoulder of his black leather jacket. "Do you know ho is working the Villanova case?"

"Nah, man," he shook his head. "I've been wrapped up in this for hours. Do you know how many standard flat glass manufacturers there are in Nevada alone?"

Nick held up a hand in defeat.

"At least twenty-three too many, and not a single one of them with a distinction between their product that might shed some light on this investigation."

"Not another one from the glass casket guy," Nick sighed. His expression darkened even further when Warrick nodded. "Any new evidence?"

"Grissom found a fiber in the vic's nasal cavity." There was a hopeful rise in his tone. "I haven't heard anything on that yet. Possible suspect, the vic's boyfriend . . . they're bringing him in for me to interview sometime in the next hour. In the meantime, I'm trying to isolate the glass manufacturer, with no luck."

"So you have no idea then who might be in charge of the Villanova case?"

"I'm not even sure I know which case that is."

"Little girl, seven years old. . . discovered by her schoolmate?"

Warrick made the gesture of a half-shrug mixed with an unknowing head-shake. "I haven't heard anything about it." A sigh followed his admission. "Maybe check with Catherine?"

"Yeah," Nick nodded in agreement. "Thanks man, I'll do that."

Nick turned and left the office, and Warrick rubbed his face in his hands. He was so tired that his skin felt like rubber as he pulled and pinched it. He had long passed the place where coffee was of any use and was simply running on the fumes of the case itself. A knock rose at the door, and a disgruntled breath escaped him only moments before. Detective Brass stuck his head into the room and announced, "Your suspect is here, Warrick."

"Yeah, all right." He rose from the work bench and stretched his neck again. He reached into his pocket and opened his eyes wide before dropping in a few rewetting drops. He blinked until his eyes felt almost normal, and then he started toward the door. A few simple gestures and Warrick had stimulated his mind enough to draw it back into focus. He was definitely going to need it in order to question this suspect properly.