Author's Note: I'm flying from LA to Seattle tomorrow, then moving into my new apartment. After that, things should settle down again and regular updates will return. Apologies for the gaps between these last two chapters. There will be one last gap of a two or three days between this and the next one too.
Catherine was going over a few points about their crime scene with the new CSI, Riley Adams, when Nick knocked on the door, making both women look up.
"What's up, Nicky?"
"Nothin' much," he replied. "Um, I was just wondering if you'd seen Greg about anywhere..."
Her eyebrows shot up. "Greg? Um... he should be around her somewhere, right?"
"Yeah, he should be," Nick muttered. "But that boy's more slippery than a greased-up pig. He just disappears on me now, like he's avoiding me." His eyes widened. "Oh God, Cath, please tell me Greg isn't avoiding me."
"I don't think he's avoiding you," Riley put in. "I haven't seen him all night. Did he even come in today?"
"He came in today," Nick assured her. "We were on a scene together."
"Well, I hope you find him," Catherine said.
Nick narrowed his eyes at her. "Have you seen him at all tonight?"
She seemed startled. "Um... yeah, actually, I ran into him in the hall. He was on the phone, though, I didn't catch what he was saying."
Nick sighed. "Where the hell is he?" he muttered, exasperated. "I've called him seven times already. If he ditched, I swear to God—"
"He didn't ditch!" Catherine insisted abruptly. "He's around, Nick, I'm sure of it. Why don't you just focus on your case and leave him a message, I'm sure he'll call you back. Maybe he's out on a dinner break or something."
Nick nodded. "Yeah, maybe you're right. See you both, ladies," he said, and then turned around and left.
Catherine turned back to Riley. "Now, look, do you see the imprint on her left—"
They were interrupted again by a whoosh and then a slamming door as Nick leaned against it, his eyes wide. Both women looked up, rather startled.
"What's wrong with you?" Riley asked bluntly.
"Ecklie's out there," Nick hissed. "He's going to ask me where Greg is. If I say that I don't know, Greg's screwed."
"Are you serious?" Catherine blinked. "Exactly how many days has he missed?"
"A bunch," Nick replied. "Like, miss-one-more-and-you're-fired. That's how many."
Catherine chewed on her lip. "Do you know why?" she asked, slowly.
Nick frowned. "Do you?"
"I'll go ask Wendy about that DNA..." Riley said slowly, and slipped out of the room, leaving Nick and Catherine alone.
"OK, look," said Catherine, simply. "It's clear that there's something bothering him and so I say give him some time to deal with that issue, and when it's over things will be fine."
"Issue, what issue?" Nick asked. "Greg is just... Wait, what are you talking about?"
"I'm sure that wherever Greg is, he's needed there," Catherine explained, turning away from Nick guiltily.
"What?!" Nick exclaimed. "You know where he is, don't you?"
"No, I do not," Catherine replied, but her tone betrayed her.
"Where is he, Catherine?" Nick half growled.
"Abducted by aliens?" Catherine suggested awkwardly. She sighed. "OK, he went to help a friend. He asked me to cover for him, but Nicky, it sounded like this guy was in serious trouble."
"Greg is in serious trouble!" Nick returned. "Do you know he—" He cut himself off abruptly and settled instead for a growl as he fell into a nearby chair and sighed, his eyes gravitating to the floor. "I'm really scared, Cath. I don't know what's going on with him lately. He's... doing things that I never thought he'd be doing. And the worst part is, he won't tell me why."
Catherine sighed and sat in a chair next to Nick. "Well... The best you can do is give him some time to—"
"That's just it, I've given him time," Nick replied. "He even said he was going to fix it, and I... I don't know if he will."
"Some people don't like talking about personal things," Catherine cooed with a smile. "Not everyone wears their heart on their sleeve like you do. I'm sure he's handling it."
But Nick could hear the uncertainty in her tone. "You just hope he is. Like I do."
"He won't lose his job," Catherine assured Nick. "He's smarter than that."
"Yeah, he's smart, but he's also stupid," Nick remarked. "Have you met that girl he's seeing now? The prostitute?"
Catherine blinked. "Greg is dating a prostitute?"
"I'm surprised Hodges didn't tell you," Nick mumbled. "He told all the lab techs already." He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. "I can't believe he has you covering for him now! Do you now how many times I've had to cover for him? This is ridiculous! He can't do this, he shouldn't do this... And if Ecklie finds out, Catherine..."
"Hush," Catherine whispered. "He'll come back."
"That's just it, Catherine," Nick uttered, looking up at her with frightened brown eyes. "He won't."
The drive out to Lake Mead took about forty minutes, and Greg knew he was pushing it. He was nervous about what exactly was going on with Lyle, and the guilt over worrying Catherine was gestating in his stomach, making him nauseous. On top of everything, his withdrawal symptoms were knocking on the door to his brain and his headache was ready to let them in for a house party in his skull.
Finally, Greg saw a jeep pulled up by the shore. It was the only car around and he knew who it had to belong to. He got out of his car and made his way towards it slowly. He approached the driver's side and his heart lurched when he saw a face squished against the glass, the eyes closed. He took a deep breath and reached for the door handle when the eyes suddenly opened and Greg screamed, leaping backwards.
A second later, the door was open and Lyle was glaring at him. His eyes were black and sunken and his chalk-white skin was stretched taut over his bones. He looked like a decaying corpse. His hair was plastered to his forehead and he was drenched in sweat. "Where the hell have you been?!" he demanded.
"It's a forty minute drive out here from the crime lab!" Greg exclaimed. "What do you expect?"
"Do you have it?" Lyle asked.
"Do I have what?"
"Get in the fucking car," Lyle growled, and slammed his door shut.
Greg was shaking. He had never seen the bartender like this. Lyle had always been amicable and strong. But he looked as if he'd lost weight, mostly muscle mass, as his biceps weren't nearly as impressive as they once had been. But Greg climbed into the passenger seat and closed the door.
"Did you bring it?" Lyle repeated.
"What do you want?" Greg replied evenly.
"The drugs, asshole!" Lyle snapped. "Give me the drugs!"
"You know I don't have cocaine, Lyle," Greg said. "You know I don't do that shit."
"And so what, that makes you better than me?!" Lyle growled like a tiger. "You are such a fucking hypocrite. Drugs are drugs, whether you're getting smashed on alcohol, smoking a pack of cigarettes a day, getting high on pot or shooting up heroin! It's all the same, don't you get it?"
"No, it isn't all the same," said Greg, shaking his head. "There are hard drugs, like cocaine, and there are soft drugs, like weed, and if—"
"Hard drugs, soft drugs, that doesn't mean shit!" Lyle spat. "It's all just a matter of preference. You're neurotic so you like your Valium, and I need energy so I like my coke. So give me my fucking coke, you hypocrite!"
But Greg stood his ground. "I told you, Lyle," he said calmly. "I don't have any cocaine."
"Fuck!" Lyle spat. "Then give me weed! I told you to bring drugs, man, you can't leave here without giving me something!"
"Well..." said Greg slowly, reaching into his wallet. "I have that tea that Cam makes..."
"Shit, do I look like a fucking kettle?!" Lyle yelled. "I don't have the means to make tea!"
"Maybe you could smoke it," Greg suggested. "Or just eat it, you know? I'm positive there are some shrooms in there, so..."
"Fuck it," Lyle muttered, looking out the window and shaking his head. "You really let me down, Rabbit."
Greg chewed on his lip, before he dared to ask, "What happened to you, man? One minute, you're happy as anything, making out with Cam and—"
"Don't you even mention that bitch's name in my presence, do you hear me?!" Lyle shouted.
And it was then that the true strangeness of the situation occurred to Greg. If Lyle had needed drugs, he should have known that Greg was not the person to call. He should have called Camellia. She was his dealer, after all.
"What happened between you and Camellia?" Greg said slowly.
Lyle rolled his eyes. "It's fucked up, Rabbit. Everything is so fucked up now, and it's her fucking fault."
"Were you the one Gemini stabbed?" Greg dared to ask.
Lyle looked up. "Gemini? Aw, that fucking purple-headed pixie cunt! She gets all riled up because I told her she looked like she was calling the aliens to take her back home and takes out this knife I didn't even know she had! Jesus... So Cam drives us to the hospital... Did Cam tell you who she ran into there?"
Greg blinked. "No... No, I had no idea this even happened!"
"Her doctor," Lyle growled with a snort. "For some stupid reason, the bitch has been dodging him and when he told me why... She's fucking killing me, Rabbit. And she fucking knew it! That's murder, that's just outright murder!"
"What did she do, Lyle?!" Greg demanded.
"She's tainted," Lyle explained. "Contaminated. Damaged goods. And I fucked that disease-ridden sewer of hers."
Goosebumps rose on Greg's skin and he felt a thin film of sweat coat his pores. "What? What disease does she... What does she have?"
Lyle looked at Greg if he was stupid. He pulled down the collar of his shirt and pointed at a discoloration at the top of his chest. "Do you know what this is, Rabbit?"
Greg hoped the answer was skin cancer. "No..."
"It's the kiss of death," said Lyle. "Lesion numero uno, and plenty more to follow. And guess who's to blame!"
Darkness began to encroach on Greg's vision as a strange pounding in his head grew louder and louder and colored spots appeared before his eyes. The world was tilting and he felt incredibly lightheaded as he leaned back in his seat, bringing his hands up to his face. "Jesus fucking Christ..." he swore, his voice trembling as badly as the rest of his body.
"You're telling me," Lyle muttered, pulling the last cigarette out of a box and sticking it between his lips. He fumbled with his lighter and cupped his hand over the end of the shaking cigarette, which eventually caught fire and he inhaled deeply.
"Holy shit, she never even..." She never told me, Greg finished in his mind. In his fury, he clenched his hand into a fist and rammed it into the dashboard. "I'm fucked!" Pain radiated through his knuckles and the tiny incisions left behind by his nails in his palm. He was shivering now, and he knew he was in a hole he couldn't dig his way out of.
Lyle frowned at him. "What are you so worried about?"
"I fucked her too!" Greg exclaimed. "You were there, weren't you? Don't you even remember?"
Lyle shrugged. "A lot of things are fuzzy these days... You wear a rubber?"
"I-I-I can't remember..." Greg began to panic. "Jesus Christ, I can't remember!"
"I've fucked her a dozen times, and I trusted her... Says she's on the pill, so we didn't always use rubbers," Lyle muttered. "Fucking cunt."
Suddenly, Greg couldn't breathe. "Oh God, I need my pills..." he groaned. "Oh God, I badly need my pills!"
But he groped around for it in his jeans and found nothing. A part of him remembered leaving them at home before he had headed over to Cam's in search of his cure.
"Hot water..." Greg muttered. "We need some fucking tea, dammit!"
"I told you, you don't have hot water!" Lyle returned.
Greg didn't care. He ripped a packet out of his wallet and poured the dried herbs out onto his hand when Lyle seized his wrist. "No you don't, motherfucker. If I have to stay clean, then so do you!"
Greg jolted his wrist out of Lyle's grip, and the packet and its contents flew everywhere. "Don't fucking try to tell me what to do, you goddamn coke head!" he snapped. With horror, Greg recoiled, taking a step outside of himself as his words echoed in his head. He raked his hands through his hair. "Jesus, what's happened to me?" He looked at the drugs, scattered on the floor of Lyle's car, then looked up at the old bartender, who was no longer paying any attention to him. He was gripping the wheel, his hands disturbingly skeletal and his breathing was ragged.
"Got stabbed..." Lyle began, one of his hands reaching to rub his left side unconsciously. "Doctors tried to put me in fuckin' rehab... My boss found out and I lost my job... My dealer gave me AIDS, so that means I lost my connection... Fuck, man, I'm fucked!"
Greg watched him in revulsion, even as his own withdrawal symptoms really began to kick in again. When he had known Lyle years ago, the bartender had been warm, friendly, and brawny, but much like a giant teddy bear. He had laughed, made good money, and had fun in his job. Now, he was trembling, deathly white, and much scrawnier than before, sniffing every so often, a constant reminder of the price he'd paid.
But the most frightening thing about Lyle, Greg realized, was that Greg was slowly becoming that sickly sallow skeleton himself.
"I can't do this anymore..." Greg whispered. "I can't... I need to go." He opened the door to Lyle's car and stumbled out into the dust of the shore. He abandoned his old dead friend in that car and moved for his own, trying to hold onto his thoughts, which were rising like balloons, carrying him somewhere he didn't want to be. He clambered into his car and gripped the wheel, staring out the windshield for a long time.
Beside him on the passenger's seat, his phone began to ring. Glancing down, he saw that it was Nick. Well, Greg thought. I'll be back soon enough.
He pulled out, his head pounding, and focused as much as he could on the road. It took a lot of effort not to swerve to one side and crash. Often, he wanted to do it intentionally.
He walked back into the lab in a daze, barely blinking. Judy tried to catch his attention, but he passed her like a ghost and made his way deliberately down the halls of the lab, his jaw slack. He passed Grissom, who was speaking to Hodges, and his supervisor looked up and then approached him, matching Greg's pace, who didn't slow down.
"Greg," Grissom said, coldly. "Where have you been? Ecklie has been looking all over for you and you've left poor Nick and Catherine to make up excuses. He's not buying their stories anymore."
"I'm... sorry..." Greg said, vaguely feeling the emotion, although the majority of his body was numb by now. Even his headache seemed less intense.
"Sorry? Is that all you have to offer us, Greg?" Grissom demanded. He lowered his voice. "Did you see Dr. Laramie?"
"Who?" Greg muttered.
"The psychiatrist. Did you see her?"
"No," Greg admitted, and then they reached the DNA lab. He turned to Grissom. "Excuse me, Griss, but there's something I have to do, could you just... hang on a second?"
His supervisor stared at him blankly. "Hold on a second?" he echoed.
Greg thanked him and moved into the lab, where Wendy was poised over some papers, one hand on the microscope.
"Wendy."
She was startled, possibly by his presence, or the way he said her name. It was flat and yet sharp at the same time, like a jagged skipping stone. She wasn't used to hearing this tone in Greg's voice; indeed, neither were any of them.
"Yes...?" she said slowly in response to his call.
He opened his mouth to respond but closed it briefly, making his way instead to a nearby drawer and pulling out a latex glove, which he began to tie around his upper left arm. "I need to borrow your lab for a second, if that's OK."
Her brow furrowed as she stared at his arm. "Um..." At this point, Grissom had entered the lab. Greg was pulling at one end of the latex glove with his teeth to make sure it was tight enough. When that was done he flicked at the blue vein just above the crook of his elbow.
"Uh huh," he said, satisfied, and then turned to another drawer in which he scrambled for something else.
"Greg?" Grissom said tentatively. "What's going on? What are you doing?"
"Little experiment," Greg replied. "Aha!" He had found what he was looking for. He turned around, holding a packaged syringe. He unwrapped it and eyed it warily.
"Greg, that's not—" Wendy began.
"Greg!" Grissom chastised as the young CSI swabbed at a spot on his arm with antiseptic.
He smiled eerily, and he noted that it chilled his colleagues. "Come any closer and somebody may lose an eye," he warned. He said it with a smile, possibly an attempt at a morbid joke. His colleagues couldn't be sure.
Greg pulled the case off of the needle with his teeth before putting the metal to his skin.
Wendy gasped, but it didn't stop him from drawing his own bloody. Greg saw Grissom glance at Wendy.
"Wait here with him," he told the lab tech. "I'll be right back."
Wendy looked absolutely terrified of being left alone in the lab with Greg, but the younger man was ignoring them. He had finished drawing the blood and was currently occupied with slipping it into a slot in the wheel, and turning on the mixing machine.
"Curious to, uh, see what your DNA looks like?" Wendy asked tentatively.
To her surprise, he laughed. "I was a tech like you once, Wendy," he said. "You should know that I've already pulled and matched my own DNA on my breaks. I'm sure you've done the same."
He turned around and opened a cabinet door by Wendy's feet. Frowning, he sat up. "Where do you keep your disease kits?" he asked.
Her eyes widened. "What? Greg! You don't think—"
"Where are they, Wendy?"
Maybe it was because he was so pale, or maybe he was just more intimidating than he thought, because the normally confident woman pointed behind him at another cabinet beneath the spinner.
He smiled gratefully at her and nodded. "Thanks," he said, before swiftly moving to where he pointed. She saw him pull out a kit, but not which one.
"What do you think you have?" she dared to ask.
He stopped a moment, then turned off the machine, lifting his sample out of the holder. "I don't know yet," he said.
"You know, you should go to a doctor for this," Wendy advised. "When Ecklie hears that you used lab equipment for personal—"
"Wendy, no offense, but I'm really trying to concentrate here," Greg snapped as he lifted a strip carefully and popped the lid off the vial of his blood. Holding his breath, he slowly and carefully slid the strip into the vial of blood.
Come on, come on...
"Sanders!"
That wasn't Wendy's voice. Nor was it Grissom's. But Greg couldn't heed it, not now, not when he was so on edge...
"Look at me when I'm talking to you!" the voice snapped, and someone seized his shoulder, whipping him around. Greg, surprised by the touch, released his grip on the vial and it tumbled to the floor, spilling the blood everywhere.
"Jesus Christ, do you have any idea what you've just done?!" Greg found himself shouting at Conrad Ecklie, his boss's boss.
Ecklie looked flabbergasted. "Do you?!"
Greg was breathing heavily, glancing from Ecklie to Wendy, who was standing nervously a few paces behind him. And next to Wendy stood Grissom.
Traitor, Greg thought bitterly.
"Sanders!" Ecklie was yelling again. "Just what the hell do you think you're doing?"
Greg swallowed and tried to find the numbness again. But it was hard with his headache pounding in rhythm with his rapid heartbeat, and his lungs were rasping for air, and the slimy sweat was trickling between the crevices of his fingers and soaking through his shirt.
"Wha... me? N-nothing, just a... an experiment."
Ecklie frowned, and his eyes slowly moved away from Greg's face to the kit that lay open on the counter. He approached it and examined it. Greg's heart leapt into his throat. He expected Ecklie to yell at him some more about using the lab for personal matters, like Wendy had warned. He expected to be suspended, or even fired, for his erratic behavior over the past few months.
But to his utter surprise, Ecklie seemed disturbingly calm. He took the kit and folded it up again, placing it neatly in the cabinet Greg had retrieved it from. He turned to face Grissom.
"Gil, let's talk in your office," he said quietly. He turned to Greg. "You're coming too, Sanders."
And with that, he strode out of the DNA lab, with both Grissom and Greg watching after him. Grissom turned and cast Greg an inquisitive look before following Ecklie out into the hall, leaving Greg alone with Wendy, who gulped visibly.
Greg sighed. "I'm sorry if I... I dunno, made you uncomfortable..." Greg said. He smiled and gave a weak laugh. "You know, you've rearranged a lot. It wasn't as easy to find my way around here as I thought it would be. I had this impression that everything would be where I left it, but... it's not. You've rearranged stuff your way. And that's fine!" he added hastily, as Wendy opened her mouth to defend herself. "Just a... reality check for me, is all. I shouldn't expect things to be the same, even in here. Things... change. People come and go in this place, and objects move around..." He reinforced his tired smile. "You're... really good at what you do."
She smiled back at him at the compliment, though she couldn't understand the weight it carried for Greg.
So he explained. "Someone told me that once, when I was in here, and I think... I don't know, I think that everyone should hear it now and then, just to... just to be reminded of why they still do it, you know? I mean, those who are good at it should hear it. People who suck should also be told that they suck. Which reminds me, I need to see Hodges about—"
"Sanders!" Ecklie's sharp voice barked, startling Greg out of his almost-pleasant monologue. "I told you to get the hell into my office!"
"Right," Greg said with a curt nod. "You're office. I'll be right there." He turned back to Wendy. "See you," he said, and gave her a meek wave before he was gone.