"Greg, have you seen Nick around? I have news on his maggot."
"I think he was headed back out to Diablo Canyon with Lockwood. Anything I might be interested in? Anything I could help with?" Greg asked with a wiggle of his eyebrows.
"I think your talents are best used in the lab, Greg."
The young lab rat tried to hide his disappointment. "C'mon, Grissom. I mean, it's not like I'm asking to go out in the field or anything. Just like to do something that doesn't involve swabs for a change."
The entomologist cast an appraising eye over the young man. Greg was practically making puppy eyes at him and Gil was surprised he didn't see sweat on the young man's upper lip, straining with the effort of keeping himself from bouncing up and down.
"It's not much, Greg…" he started, but the lab tech already had a grin spreading across his face.
The supervisor relented under the overwhelming enthusiasm. "His maggot is stunted."
"Stunted?" Greg asked in confusion. "Like did it smoke as a teenager?"
"No, Greg. This maggot was pulled off a body Nick found in the desert. It's from the family Sarcophagidae. This particular maggot was exposed to freezing temperatures. Its growth is stunted. It will never reach maturity."
"Kinda tragic, huh?" Greg mused. "Bet the momma fly wished for better for her baby."
Grissom's eyebrow rose, signaling an end to his patience. Greg snatched up the plastic vial containing the fly larva and turned on his heel, headed back into the bowels of the lab.
In 1985, Nick Stokes was still at Sam Austin High playing back-up quarterback to Lonnie Seavers, spending more time on the bench with the playbook than out on the gridiron. That Monday night had started out like pretty much every Monday night in Texas, and especially in the Stokes' household: in front of the TV. The Judge had few passions beyond family and the law, good old American football being one of them, and he was a rabid and deeply entrenched viewer. It didn't matter the team really, although he loved his Cowboys, and he would throw himself into every game with body and soul, face turning red as he would scream at bone-headed plays or bad ref calls. Jillian would wander in to place a quieting hand on his shoulder, pressing another cold can of beer into his hand with a whisper in his ear to mind his blood pressure, while Nick reclined sloppily on the couch, homework forgotten in the glow of electric violence and competition.
He spent more time watching the pros do their thing, marveling at some of the intricate plays, jotting down x's and o's and arrows all over his AP Physics notebook to be used later.
That particular night it was the Giants and the Redskins playing. Each team had its strengths, but, of course, Washington had Joe Theismann.
The game had been good, both teams evenly matched, but nothing especially noteworthy, and Nick had actually been able to make it through a little studying. His head had barely lifted from his Calculus text as he caught the attempt by Theismann to run a flea-flicker play. It was poorly done and didn't fool good old LT - Lawrence Taylor- the Giants premier linebacker and bane of every opponent's quarterback. Taylor and his cohort, Gary Reasons, both picked up on the feint and put Theismann in their sights.
Thirty seconds later, the two Giants collided, Joe Theismann between them, and Nick started to turn back to his book, the sack a done deal, when he saw Taylor fall, landing on the quarterback's right leg. Cameras almost picked up the audible snap as Theismann's leg fractured at the tibia and fibula, the ragged bone breaking the skin of his shin in front of tens of thousands of horrified spectators and home viewers.
Weeks later Theismann gave an interview about that horrific night.
"It was at that point, I also found out what a magnificent machine the human body is," Theismann said. "Almost immediately, from the knee down, all the feeling was gone in my right leg. The endorphins had kicked in, and I was not in pain."
Nick had read the article with a dubiousness born of watching the gruesome footage that the networks showed over and over again. There was no way in hell Theismann wasn't in horrible pain.
Almost twenty years later Nick Stokes had to agree with the Redskin. Because his eyes saw the jagged end of his shinbone sticking out of his pant leg. But he felt …nothing. Sore and winded from his fall, but no pain - nothing below his right knee. And that scared him more than anything.
He reached fingers tentatively towards his leg, half certain it was an illusion. A stick, a piece of brush, some debris picked up when he fell. His fingers had just about reached the area when strong brown hands grabbed his and held them still.
"What the fuck are you thinkin', Nick? Don't-- just…don't."
He looked up to see his partner staring at him with the most freaked out expression he'd ever seen on his face. And he was pretty sure the expression on his face was a mirror image.
Another flash and Nick found himself holding his breath, counting Mississippi's like when he was a kid. He got to four Mississippi when the rumble of thunder sounded.
Water continued to cascade down the mountain, a screen of churning frothy tan water sluicing down in front of them.
"You were worried we wouldn't have enough water, bro?" The joke from earlier left his still stunned brain and popped from his mouth before he realized it.
Warrick looked at him incredulously, then quirked a half smile. "Be careful what you ask for, I guess." The small smile lingered on his face as he deflated, sagging on the muddy ground, running a hand through his curls, flinging away a handful of water. "Fuck, Nick. What a god damned mess."
Nick closed his eyes and knocked his head against the wall of rock behind him in frustration. "I think we can safely say we know what happened to Stacy Warner. Easy to drown in the desert when you're four thousand feet up and a storm comes along. But I'm telling' ya, Rick…I checked the weather report. It said hot and sunny- no chance of rain in Vegas."
"Well, when we get outa here we can talk to the weather guy, maybe take him on a trip up into the mountains and leave him there."
"Speakin' of getting outa here, you have your phone on you?"
"Yeah…don't you?"
"Yeah, but it was in my pocket," Nick said ruefully, hand already digging into his front pocket. His hand emerged with a broken mass of black plastic, small antenna hanging brokenly off the top and the main screen spider-webbed with cracks. He tried pushing a few buttons but there was an unsurprising lack of response.
"Man, I hate havin' to get a new phone. Takes forever to put all my numbers back in."
Warrick began digging through his pack for his phone. "Guess you're just too popular, bro."
"Popular, hell, Rick. Two parents, a brother and five sisters. Each with their home, work and cell numbers. Plus each of you guys, half the cops on the force, and most of the lab tech extensions. And yeah, I did have a few ladies' numbers, thank you very much. It's gonna take forever to feed those numbers back into a new phone if the memory chip didn't survive."
"Wouldn't worry about it, Nick. Think you'll be laid up long enough you'll be looking for somethin' to do to help kill the time," he said pointedly staring at Nick's leg. Nick grimaced and nodded angrily.
"Here we go," Warrick announced as he pulled his phone free from his bag. He chuckled as he pushed aside the deck of cards and Chapstick, his buddy reading him so well it was crazy spooky. He also had a small MP3 player, a red bandana, a magnifying glass, an extra handkerchief, and a folded up issue of the morning paper he'd been reading earlier waiting to be called before the judge.
He powered up the phone and waited to see how many bars. Half a bar that blinked went to full, then blinked again back to half. He found himself holding his breath as he waited to see where the roulette wheel of service access was gonna take him. After several more blinks the bar went away completely to be replaced with the words No signal found.
He shook his head and walked further out to the edge of their shelf, sticking his arm way out and trying to wave the phone around. Nothing. "Damn." He flopped back to the ground next to his partner. "No cavalry comin', boss. Looks like we're on our own. You, uh, tell anyone we were comin' out here?"
"Yeah. I think Greg knows. At least I think he was listening when I told him. I told him Lockwood wasn't comin' out with me and as I was leaving he told me to say hi to Cyrus."
"Great…anyone knowin' we're out here depends on the memory span of a guy whose head is already filled with biochemical formulas, bad Top Forty lyrics, and models' stats."
Lightning lit the sky once again and Nick waited for the eventual thunder. Five Mississippi's. Storm appeared to be moving on. The whole thing had blown over in a half hour. But what it did with the time it had …
The wind continued to blow steadily, ruffling the surface of the puddled water around them. Warrick began scraping at the mud that covered his limbs, clawing away gobs of cold tan goop, grimacing as it stuck to his fingers. "This stuff is like glue," he mumbled, then rose to his knees to crawl the few feet over to the waterfall. He dashed his hands under the running water, scrubbing away at the gritty paste, then reached into his back pocket to pull out a damp and wrinkled but thankfully mostly clean handkerchief. He ran it under the water until it was dripping then crawled back to hand the cloth to Nick.
The Texan took it with a small grateful smile and wiped at his face and hands, the fabric quickly becoming clogged with mud. Warrick snatched it from his hands to return to their makeshift faucet, rinsing it out and returning so Nick could work at the mud that covered his arms. A few more similar trips and Nick was mostly cleanish but goose bump-covered flesh again.
Warrick sat back on his haunches to stare at his partner. The easy part was done.
"You ready to do this, Bro?"
A tight-lipped nod was his response.
Warrick scooted over a bit as his body was blocking the feeble light, casting a shadow across his work area. He gripped his lower lip firmly between his teeth and leaned over to place his hands on the heavy denim of Nick's lower pant leg. Hands that were normally steady enough to lift prints from the glaze of a Krispy Kreme donut (and hadn't that been a fun job) shook slightly and he pulled them away to ball them into fists, trying to will the vibrations away.
"Just do it, man," Nick said thickly.
Hands not much steadier returned to the denim as his fingers gently worked into the tear in the fabric. Once he'd gotten a firm purchase on each frayed edge he held his breath and pulled as hard as he could. The heavy fabric was stubborn and he worked his hands in further, brushing lightly against exposed bone.
He heard the slightest gasp escape his friend's mouth, but steeled himself to get it over with. Another attempt, knuckles whitening with the grasp he held, and the fabric tore from the knee to stop at the much thicker hem at the bottom.
Nick's flesh was pale where it wasn't bloodied or mud covered. The actual wound area was small, only half an inch of bone jutting through the skin, but blood was continuing its slow exodus from his body.
Casting a quick look at the tightlipped expression on Nick's face he reached over to snag his backpack again pulling out the last of his bottled water. He unscrewed the cap and at a brief nod from Nick poured the last of the liquid over the wound in an attempt to clear some of the mud away.
Nick grunted and paled but remained as still as he could, fingers clutched in the fabric of his jeans, digging at the flesh of his thigh above the affected area.
The taller man returned to the still gushing muddy water, filling the now empty bottle with tan frothy water. Sediment floated thickly in the water through the clear plastic and he eyed it doubtfully. The sound of ripping fabric from behind him and he turned to see Nick tearing off a strip of fabric from the bottom of his t-shirt.
"Here. Cover the top of the bottle," Nick muttered.
Warrick took the material and wrapped it around the open end of the bottle, the fabric filtering out most of the flotsam as he resumed trying to clean out the wound.
Satisfied it was as good as he was going to be able to get it he sat back on his heels, stymied as to what to next. The water had only thinned the blood still leaking out of his leg. "Bro, washing this thing out with muddy water ain't gonna do the trick. We gotta figure out how the hell to get off this mountain."
"We gotta splint it up. Wait for it to dry up a little and I'll limp it down."
His face not even bothering to hide his incredulity, Warrick almost laughed. "You remember how hard it was getting up with two good legs, buddy? How you fixin' to do it on one?"
"You splint it up good - I'll worry about gettin' down," Nick said with an attempt at a smile.
Warrick ran a hand thru his still damp hair, shaking his head. "Splint it up with what?"
"My back pack. I think I have what might do the trick."
Warrick kept shaking his head but gamely crawled over to snag Nick's backpack. He pulled the down coat out of the top and tossed at his friend. "Here. Put it on."
"Nah, I'm good," Nick said, a shiver giving him away.
"Bro, I may not have been an Eagle Scout but even I know first aid basics. You may be okay now but it won't last. Put it on."
He went back to pawing through the pack as Nick pulled the mostly dry coat on, hugging his arms around his chest with another barely hidden shiver. The taller man began piling the stuff from the pack next to him, marveling at all the crap Nick had chosen to bring with him.
The white first aid box was next. He cracked it back open and rummaged through it, coming up with three small silver foil packets of antibacterial ointment. He bit the corners off and squeezed them each on to the open wound. "Neosporin oughta take care of whatever crap I couldn't wash out."
Paper wrapped gauze squares were next. He undid the sterile packaging and placed one over the bloody area, the small white bandage quickly soaked through with crimson. He left that one there and quickly unwrapped a second, resting it atop the first to join its cousin in scarlet staining. Last one left in the white box, he layered on a third, then grabbed up the bandana to dry the area of bloody water as best he could. He bit a piece of white bandage tape off a roll from the box and began attempting to secure the gauze, the speed with which the top layer was coloring scaring the shit out of him. Nick's hands had returned to clawing at his thigh in an attempt to circumvent the pain, but the sweat on his upper lip said it wasn't doing much for him.
The kit used to its full potential, he set it aside and went back to pulling stuff out of the backpack. A small digital camera. A Maglite mini-flashlight. A small pair of binoculars. A navy blue bandana. A notebook with the nub of a pencil shoved in the spiral top. A Leatherman pocket tool/knife combo. And finally, flat on the floor of the pack were three shiny soft cover field guides.
He rifled through the books, checking out their covers. The first was Songbirds of the Mojave, and on the cover was a close-up shot of a Mountain Bluebird, its body a gorgeous pennant blue, its chest snowy white. The second was Nevada Raptors, the cover shot of a Cooper's hawk, russet feathers and a wickedly curved beak. The third was a field guide to desert flora, the ubiquitous saguaro cactus on its cover in the traditional touchdown pose.
He put the books down and turned to find Nick faintly blushing. "Nothing in here to splint with, Nick. What were ya thinkin' ya had?"
"The books. You can use them. Hate to ruin them but …"
Warrick cocked an eyebrow at him. "How'm I gonna use books?"
"Rip them in half. Roll 'em up," Nick responded seriously.
Warrick nodded, initially slow on the uptake but quickly seeing what his friend meant. He split each book in half and ripped them along their bindings, leaving him with six pieces, each with a sturdy but flexible front or back cover. He rolled each up tightly until he had what were in essence foot long logs of paper.
He sat back on his heels and waited for further direction.
Nick sat up a bit straighter against the wall. "Alright…here…hang on…" He took the coat off and removed his still sodden t-shirt, quickly redressing in the coat. "Not doing me any good and we'll need all the material we can get," he said as he saw his partner staring questioningly at him.
"Rip it in half, down the middle from the collar," he instructed. Warrick complied without question, figuring the ex-Scout probably knew what he was doing. When done he had two pieces of shirt, a sleeve on each one.
Nick grimaced. "This is the fun part," he grunted. "Slip my foot into the sleeve of one of the halves until the toe of my boot pokes through."
"That means an awful lot of moving of your leg, bro. You sure?"
"Gotta be done, Rick. G'head."
Warrick slipped the open sleeve over Nick's boot, lifting the leg as he eased the fabric down and around and back up. The fabric came about halfway up Nick's shin. "What next?" he asked, wiping sweat he couldn't believe had formed in the freezing air from his forehead.
When no answer came right away he looked up to see Nick's face screwed up and little puffs of vapor panted from his mouth.
" 'kay," the Texan managed to grunt out. "Put a splint on either side of the ankle and tie 'em on good 'n tight." He watched as his partner ripped the sad remains of one of his favorite t-shirts into long strips to tie around his ankle.
That completed Warrick sat back to give Nick a chance to catch his breath. All this moving of his leg was already taking its toll and Nick was panting heavily, his face almost obscured by a fog of chilled breath.
Nick shook his head, wanting to get on with it, hoping that once they had the leg immobilized that the pain might decrease a bit. He squeezed his damaged finger into his palm, the flare of pain temporarily diverting his attention from the knife blade digging into his shin.
"Do the knee next," he coughed out painfully, straightening his leg out as best he could since every molecule of his body wanted to pull away from Warrick's hands.
A splint secured on either side of his knee and partway up his thigh with more of the fabric strips, and Nick braced for what was next.
" 'kay. Now on either side of the break. Try to keep the bindings away from the …gauze."
The last set of splints fit almost perfectly into the space left; the last of the t-shirt strips wrapped around his lower leg on either side of the open wound.
"Last thing," he panted out, the words carried on more silvery vapor. "The ends of the sleeve part around the foot. Tie the ends to the knee bindings to immobilize it."
Nick considered the results. Not exactly ideal, not having a solid piece of wood on either side but the joints weren't moving and the rolled up books were strong enough to hold. Not much else to do about it any way. It would have to do. He ground out a smile at his partner. "Not bad, bro. We'll make an Eagle Scout out of ya yet."
"Nope," Warrick said, shaking his head firmly. "Not ever doing this again. Uh-uh. No thanks. This was enough for one lifetime." He paused then squinted up one appraising eye at his friend. "How you holding up?"
"Good. Better," he amended. "Thanks."
"You hurt anywhere else? You're huggin' your chest."
"Ribs. Just bruised, I think." He watched Warrick's brow wrinkle in concern.
"You sure, bro?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I know what cracked ones feel like."
During all their activity the storm had blown completely over, the sun still pale behind heavy cloud cover. The mini-Niagara in front of them had slowed to a trickle and the winds calmed somewhat, but the air was still freezing cold, the storm apparently carried on the crest of a cold front.
"Hey, Rick?"
"Yeah?"
"D'you really bring a deck of cards? We've got some time to kill."
