(c)2002

Twirl me about, twirl me around

Let me grow dizzy and fall to the ground

When I look up at you looking down

Say it was only a dream

(Mary-Chapin Carpenter)

Chapter One

"We do not see the world as it is, we see the world as we are."

(Talmud)

Getting the answer's easy.

It's figuring out what the question is that's a bitch.

"Nicky?"

He glanced up sharply. "Sorry. Kinda tired."

Grissom's eyes narrowed a little. "That much I deduced on my own. Still sick?"

"Nah. Least I don't think so."

"Well, chop chop, okay? Sara's already at the scene."

"Got it. I'm outta here."

He popped a pill before getting in the car. By the time he got out to the depot, the Vike had kicked in. Not enough to make him sleepy again. Juuust right.

"What we got?" he asked Sara, cameras slung over his shoulder.

She started talking, and he had never been so glad a crime had been committed. What the fuck. Gave him something to do.

They wrapped up about ten the next morning. Still no solution for whatever had killed the geezer out by the railroad tracks. Nick had spent a long four hours in the lab and emerged with nothing helpful to show for it, but hey. It happened sometimes. Sometimes the evidence just wasn't there. Got lost, dried up, blew away. Even if Griss didn't like to think so.

"Yo, Nick. Breakfast?"

Nick glanced over at Warrick and then went back to scrouging through his locker. "Nah. Thanks. I'm beat."

"Still hangin', huh."

"Guess so."

"All right. Later, man."

"Later."

He waved goodbye to people, smiled when he was expected to smile. At home he dropped the keys in the bowl by the door and looked around. Place was a goddamn mess, that much was true, but no way was he going to clean it up now. Nobody else around. Not like the mess was going anyplace.

Two hours of lying in bed, sleepless, watching the slow progression of sunlight across the ceiling, and he finally gave it up. Not gonna happen.

He watched Twilight Zone episodes until it was time to shower for work. Pretty appropriate, right, Nick-ee? Oughta recognize the place; you work there. He stood under hot sheeting water and smiled, and sobbed once, out of nowhere.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I'm sorry about that."

Grissom took off his glasses. "Sorry for what?"

Nick felt his cheeks heating up. "At the scene. What -- You know."

"Sit down."

He lowered himself carefully into a chair.

"What happened?" Grissom asked softly. No trace of censure.

"Sometimes -- You know, it just gets to me." Nick kept his eyes down, swallowing hard. "Thought I was getting used to it, but tonight, man, I saw that little girl, and she was still holding the elephant."

Grissom looked uncertain.

"The toy. The one they found her with." And oh, FUCK, just talking about it made it all come back, and he pushed the easy grief as hard as he fucking could, stay where you BELONG, out of sight out of mind, you fucker. "She was just a little kid," he continued harshly. "It's sad. I cried. End of story."

Grissom was silent for a moment. Then he drew a long breath. "You cried a long time, Nicky. Upset you a lot. Want to talk about it?"

"And say what? Kids shouldn't die? Not like that, not at all?" Nick reached up and wiped his face angrily, goddamn tears not obeying ORDERS. "Nothing new there."

"You've seen dead kids before. Did it always make you feel this badly to see them?"

"I guess."

"Because I've never seen you react like that. Not -- that much."

Nick nodded. "Won't happen again."

"Are you sure you --"

"I'm sure." He forced a smile and liked the way Grissom kinda drew back. "I got evidence to process, okay? Gotta get a move on. I just wanted to, you know."

"Clear the air."

"Right."

"Any time, Nick."

"Thanks."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He shoved some of the crap out of his way and leaned on the table, fumbling his phone open. "Stokes."

"Mr. Stokes, this is Officer Jenkins. My partner and I spoke with you the other night."

"Oh."

"Is this a good time?"

"No."

"I apologize. We have some information we'd like to go over with you, when you get the chance."

Nick reached out and moved a reagent bottle an inch to the left. Better. "I don't think that's necessary," he said politely.

"Come again?"

"Thanks anyway."

"Mr. --"

He closed the phone carefully and went back to the slides. Why were criminals so fucking stupid sometimes? What, did they think not being at the scene when the cops arrived meant nobody'd figure shit out? Hello? Can you say "blood trail?" I thought you could.

He reached for another sliver of glass and hissed when it bit through his glove. Stupid, you stupid FUCK, you know better, now it's an incident report and employee health and what a fucking pain in the ass.

He shoved, hard, and felt a deep sense of glee when the microscope tipped off the edge of the table. Yeah, fuck with ME, you mindless piece of JUNK, here, how about some more, huh? He threw one of the bottles and grinned when it hit the wall and sprayed foul-smelling liquid. Useless crap, nobody needs this anyway, no one with four functioning brain cells, and at least four of his were still working, oh yeah, enough to nail THIS guy, no problemo.

"What the FUCK?"

Nick coughed a little and shot a glance at Warrick's astounded face. "Oops."

"What the hell are you doing, Nick? And what is that smell?" Warrick pulled up his shirt collar, covering the lower half of his face. "That shit's toxic, man! Come on, get outta here."

He grabbed Nick's arm and Nick snarled, "Get your hands OFF me, asshole."

"Whoa, wait a second." Warrick's eyes were wide. He backed away a step. "Come on, Nick, just --"

"What, you think you can just -- walk in and order me around?" He drew a fast breath and coughed. His finger was stinging. "No way, man, you don't outrank me!"

"Who gives a FUCK about rank? Jesus, let's just get outta here!"

Nick grinned and picked up another bottle. "Go ahead, Warrick. I'm just fine."

The second bottle hit the door right after Warrick dove under the table.

"I think I cut my finger, though." Nick stuck his finger in his mouth and sucked away the blood, and then another spasm of coughing hit, a lot harder this time. What WAS that stuff anyway? He looked around blankly, taking in the shards of glass lined up on the table, still all in place.

Someone grabbed him around the waist, but he was too busy coughing up a lung to be absolutely sure who that might have been.

Chapter Two

To endure is the first thing that a child ought to learn, and that which he will have the most need to know.

(Jean Jacques Rousseau)

"So what happened?"

Warrick shook his head. "Hell if I know. Heard a crash, went to check it out, and Nick's throwing shit around. I grabbed him and got out of there."

Grissom stared at him. "So he destroyed a microscope, exposed you both to hazardous chemicals, and he didn't ever say what was wrong? This is Nick we're talking about?"

"I know. Believe me."

"Nearly puts both of you in the ER, for what? Never mind." Grissom sighed. "You okay?"

"Yeah. No problem."

"Let me know if there is a problem, okay?"

"There is. Nick."

Grissom leaned back in his chair.

"What's with him these days?" Warrick made a face. "I mean, he does the job, you know, but it's like working with his evil twin."

"How so?"

"Cath tell you about yesterday?"

Grissom's eyes narrowed. "She didn't mention anything, no."

"Look," Warrick said, lacing his fingers together. "I'm not trying to cause the guy some more problems. You know, I mean, he's had a rough gig lately."

"Nigel Crane."

"Yeah."

"That happened six months ago. You think it's related?"

"I don't know. But Cath told me he kinda freaked last night."

"In what way?"

"Went mano-a-mano with McAda over evidence. Said he'd messed with the scene."

"Detective McAda?"

"One and the same. Not somebody you want to fuck with, but Cath says before she knew it somebody punched somebody. Word has it Nick wasn't the one getting punched, either."

Completely at a loss for words, Gil finally nodded. "Okay. Thanks for letting me know."

"Yeah, well, just send somebody else next time he decides to fumigate the lab, okay?"

"Will do."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I didn't tell you because I didn't think it was an ongoing problem."

"But you know I have to do a report, anytime something like this happens."

Catherine's face was completely expressionless. "Understood."

Grissom frowned. "Is there anything else you'd like to tell me?"

"No." She shook her head.

"Because covering for him isn't going to help him. Not in the long run."

"There's no long run, Gil. It was just that one thing."

"Do you think he has some kind of problem going on?"

She didn't reply immediately. He felt as if he could hear her sorting through ways to reply. Finally she said, "I think Nick's -- not as good at hiding his emotions as we are. And sometimes things creep out."

"Question is, was it the case, or something else?"

"I couldn't say."

Couldn't, or wouldn't, he thought about asking, but didn't. "Keep me apprised?"

"Sure."

He watched her walk out, and then he stared at the empty corridor outside his office.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"It won't happen again."

"That's fine, Nick. But it doesn't explain why it happened this time."

Nick regarded him impassively. "Don't you ever get mad about any of this?"

"Of course I do. You know that."

"But you keep doing the job. What's so different about me?"

Gil nodded slowly. "Feeling better now?"

"Good to go."

"Could you maybe not break anything tonight?"

The smile on Nick's face was polished, bright, and completely empty. "I'll do my best."

"Nick, are you sure you're okay?"

One smile, gone. "Why do you ask?"

"Isn't it pretty self-evident?"

"Not really, no," Nick shot back, brows drawn together over thunderous eyes. "I told you, I'm fine."

"Fill out the incident report?"

"Yep."

"Leave McAda alone, Nicky. You don't want to get messed up with him."

Nick snorted, shrugging. "Heard about that, huh."

"Yeah. Regardless of how you may feel about his methods --"

"Look, I just did what everyone else here wants to do," Nick interrupted harshly. "You saying you blame me?"

Gil drew a deep, careful breath. "I'm saying I want you to control your temper. That's all."

This time Nick's smile was absolutely cold. "Duly noted. Sir."

"How's your hand?"

Nick stared at him, and then looked at his hands. "Fine. Look, if we're done here, I got work to do." He raised his eyebrows. "We done?"

Gil nodded. "Yeah," he replied slowly. "Yeah. We're done."

It only occurred to him later to wonder why Nick had looked at his left hand first, when the cut was on his right.

Chapter Three

Once, during Prohibition, I was forced to live for days on nothing but food and water.

(W.C. Fields)

It all would have been just fine, if Mike McAda had left him the fuck alone.

The guy was bent, everybody knew it. Nobody did anything about it because, well, you didn't, with guys like McAda. What you did was walk softly, do the best you could, and hope like hell you didn't catch his eye.

Of course, punching him right in his lying mouth had pretty much assured Nick caught McAda's eye. Thing was, it didn't make him mad, not like Nick and everyone expected.

Instead it got Nick a job offer.

"I'm serious. Just think about it, all right? S'all I ask."

Nick just stared at him. "You gotta be shitting me," he managed after a moment.

That easy smile, that so many people underestimated. People who didn't know McAda, that was. "No shit, I swear to God." He raised his hands. "Way I figure it, I either sue your ass, or get you on my team. Lawsuits make me cranky. So there it is."

"I'm not a cop," Nick returned in a clipped voice, stomping on the impulse to hit the guy again. Once he could get away with, evidently; twice was really pushing it. Even these days he didn't feel like courting that kind of trouble. "In case you hadn't noticed."

"But you were. Back in Dallas, right?"

"You checked me out?"

"Yeah," McAda shot back flatly, smile still in place. "I checked you out. The offer's on the table. You think about it, all right, Nicky?"

"I don't have to. I'm happy where I am."

McAda's eyebrows lifted. "Yeah, well, if that's happy, I don't wanna see you when you're pissed off."

"In that case, I suggest you leave."

Instead of bristling, McAda laughed at that, not jeering, something like genuine appreciation. "You're gonna fit right in, man. You say the word, you're in. I'll check with you later this week."

Nick couldn't think of anything to say to that. He went back to his microscope with a vague sense of irritation. What the fuck good did it do, all this poking around, using tweezers to pick up minute traces of shit, and people still got away with half the stuff they did. Waste of time.

"I take it you didn't punch him again."

Nick glanced over at Catherine, standing by the door. "Not yet," he replied thinly, and went back to his 'scope.

"Nick, what's the matter? What's going on?"

Trust Cath to bulldoze her way through the niceties. Nick put down the slide he was adjusting and crossed his arms. "Why do you ask?"

She came over to lean against the table. He hated the look on her face. Once upon a time he would have called it concern. Now it was just damned annoying. "I think you know the answer to that," she said. "Are you in trouble? You want to talk about it?"

"No, and no. You want a heart to heart? Catch me after work, because I got a lot of stuff to do."

Her expression didn't change. "What did McAda want?"

"What difference does it make?" he countered easily. "He's no different from just about anybody else."

"He's crooked, Nick. And you pissed him off. Why you --"

"He looks after his own best interests," Nick interrupted, faintly surprised at how honest the words felt. "If you don't do that, who's gonna do it for you?"

She stared at him. "You really believe that?"

"I don't disbelieve it."

"That why you punched him?"

A faint headache began pulsing behind his eyes. "Maybe. Look, Catherine, I don't have time for twenty questions, all right? Just -- let it be. Okay?"

"Okay, Nick." Catherine nodded slowly, her expression pinched. "Sure, I'll leave it alone. Till next time. You got that?"

"Oh, yeah," Nick whispered, and smiled. "I got it."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

He met Persie at a club. He couldn't quite remember which one. The last of several that night, evidently.

Persie was short for Persimmon. He thought that was a pretty bizarre name, and told her as much, when the music got to a point where they could actually yell loud enough to be heard.

"My parents are freaky," she screamed at him, flashing perfect orthodontic teeth.

"They named you for a fruit?"

"My sister got it worse."

"I'm scared to ask."

"Fuschia. Everybody called her Fuckya in school."

"That's kind of sad."

"It's fucking hilarious."

He danced with Persie and drank a lot of well bourbon, and even though he was pretty sure she was stoned on something, he had no idea what, she was extremely pretty in a kind of goth way, had what appeared to be a spectacular body, and it was really easy to go home with her. She fucked as energetically as she danced, body just as great as advertised, and there were worse ways to spend the night.

She woke up cranky, and while he went for coffee she went for drugs. They met back up in her bohemian-trash apartment and did their respective shit.

"You should try this," Persie told him, grinning at him and pinching his leg with her toes.

"I don't do that," he said.

"Well, you oughta. Loosen up some, something. You're really cute when you're not all tense."

He glared at her. "And you're stoned."

"Yes. Yes, I am." She grinned and flopped back on the bed, spreading her arms and legs and showing him a lot of that very wonderful body. "Life's too short to endure it sober, Nick-eeee."

After a while they fucked again, still pretty nice all things considered, and after she lifted herself up on one elbow and asked, "You mean you never tried *anything*?"

He wiped sweat off his upper lip. His crotch actually kind of hurt; maybe she was TOO athletic. "Nope."

She giggled. "You're a virgin."

"Give me a break."

"Nick-eeee's a virgin...."

He sat up and scrounged around for his shorts. "I gotta go."

"Don't pout. Please?" Persie -- what a fucking STUPID nickname -- slid over and insinuated herself into his lap. "Come on. I want to introduce you to my friends."

He shoved her off and stood to pull up his shorts. "I got work this afternoon."

"It'll be fun." She sat up naked on the bed and crossed her legs, looking hot and painfully young at the same time. "You gotta meet Brandon."

"Some other time." He picked up his jeans.

"So call me when you get done." She was entirely unswayed by what he thought was him being kind of an asshole. Either she didn't notice or she didn't care, and he had no idea which. "We can go to a party."

"What party?"

She grinned and shrugged, making her breasts bob nicely. "There's always a party."

"Yeah, I'll call you," he said insincerely, after buttoning his jeans. Persie pounced on his shirt before he could grab it.

"I'll keep this hostage till you do," she told him, and started putting it on.

What the hell. He didn't much care about that shirt anyway. "Okay. See you."

"Bye, Nick-eeee."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"So you a cop or what?"

"Used to be," Nick said distantly, surveying the room. As filled with aromatic smoke as it was, he wasn't actually sure how many people were there. Too many, though.

"It shows," Brandon informed him genially.

Nick turned his stare at him. "Why, because I'm not a stoner?"

"Because you're way fucking tense." Brandon was good-looking, in a kind of dissolute way. A rich-kid-gone-bad sort of way. "You need to lighten up, or you're gonna stroke out or something."

"And that would be by taking something, I assume."

"Perse says you've never done anything."

"Actually that's not true," Nick replied calmly, and sipped his beer. "I spent half my life on Ritalin."

Brandon nodded. "Vitamin H, man. You can score that, too, you know."

"No thanks."

"Bad student?"

"I guess. Ritalin helped."

"So when'd you stop taking it?"

"When I went to the police academy. Drug testing."

"It's legal."

"Not without a prescription."

Brandon's inscrutable smile broadened, and Nick switched back to watching Persie gyrate to the blaring music. She still had on his shirt. It looked pretty cute on her, actually.

"Here."

Nick glanced over and frowned. "What the hell is that?"

Brandon just shrugged. "It's the grownup version of Ritalin."

"Keep it."

"One bump, Nicky."

"Don't call me Nicky."

"Why not, it's your name, isn't it?"

"Whatever."

Brandon grasped Nick's hand. "Here," he repeated, stuffing the foil packet in Nick's palm and closing his fingers over it. "If you get the urge. That's all."

Persimmon sauntered over and kissed Nick's cheek demurely. She smelled like smoke and booze and a sweet, delicious perfume. "Brandon's not a dealer," she whispered in his ear. "Brandon's just a drug pimp." Nick drew back and stared at her, and she grinned. "He wants us all to have a good time. That's all."

"I don't have to be loaded to have a good time."

"Whatever you say, Nicky-pie."

He did a line of whatever Brandon had given him, about two o'clock a.m. What the hell. Did it really matter, anyway? He looked up at Brandon and Persie and blinked tears out of his eyes. "That hurts."

Chapter Four

Measure not the work until the day's out and the labor done.

(Elizabeth Barrett Browning)

He'd had a few cases slip through his fingers over the years. More than a few, if he were absolutely truthful. The reasons were as varied as the crimes themselves: witnesses suddenly forgot what they'd seen; the evidence wasn't there; sometimes criminals were actually smart enough to get away with whatever they'd done.

But he hadn't had to contend with his current situation very often, and he wasn't happy to face it now.

"It's what?" Gil asked, staring.

Catherine gave him a pissed-off glare. "Missing. M-I-S-S-I --"

"I can spell it. Somebody lost it in the lab?"

"Ballistics says they never got it."

"A shell casing? Of course they got it."

"No. They didn't."

Gil sat back in his chair. "You worked this with Nick, right? Does he know what happened?"

"Well, I'd ask HIM that, but since he isn't here yet and isn't answering his cell phone, I'm having trouble doing it."

"So somewhere between the scene and here the evidence got lost?"

Catherine sat down and shook her head grimly. "Ballistics got an empty bag."

Gil just looked at her.

"Somebody took the shell casing out before it made it to ballistics," she added rather unnecessarily.

"That's a hell of an allegation, Catherine," Gil said slowly.

"It's not an allegation, it's a statement of fact!" she shot back. "I'm not saying who, I'm just saying what. No casing, and unfortunately that was the only one we found. Makes sense, seeing as how the victim only had one HOLE in him --"

"Calm down, all right? Look, Nick'll be here soon. Talk to him, see what he says."

It did divert Catherine a little, but the sinking feeling in Gil's belly didn't go away. And it got worse about an hour later, when Nick and Catherine showed up at his office. Catherine looked just about as pissed off as Gil had ever seen her, and Nick -- Well.

"I didn't screw anything up," Nick stated right off the bat. Arms crossed, looking pale and angry and more than a little alarmed. "I know I didn't."

"So how do you explain this, huh?" Catherine gave him a stare that should have crisped the shirt off him. "That might have been the ONLY piece of evidence we found that could have given us an idea of who the shooter was. The only one! And --"

"What happened, Nick?" Gil interjected in his calmest voice. "Take me through it."

"Nothing happened. We went over the scene, I found the shell casing --"

"Where'd you find it?"

"About twenty feet from the victim. I figure the shooter either didn't think to grab it or didn't have time."

Gil nodded. "And then?"

Nick rolled his eyes. "What do you think? I bagged it, sealed it, labeled it! Procedure!"

"And you turned it in?"

"Along with about fifteen other items, yeah." He shot Catherine a fiery look. "Any of which might be crucial, not just this one."

"But ballistics never got the casing. Could you have sealed it improperly? Maybe it --"

"I know how to do my job," Nick cut in sharply. His face was flushed now. "Even if Catherine thinks I don't. That shell casing was in the evidence bag."

"Fact remains, it was your job to make sure it went where it was supposed to go," Gil said evenly. "So what happened? Could someone have tampered with your materials at the crime scene? Once you were back here at the lab?"

"No. No, of course not. I do it by the book. You KNOW that, I don't --"

"Have you looked around your vehicle? Was that the car you took to the scene?"

"We drove separately," Catherine told him in a somewhat quieter voice. "I was already out; Nick met me there."

Gil nodded and looked back at Nick. "So?"

Nick gave a faintly theatrical sigh. "I don't HAVE to look, Grissom, I know it isn't there. If it got lost you better be asking ballistics who screwed it up, all right?"

"We will, believe me. But in the meantime, check your vehicle. Look," Gil added when the man gave him a surprisingly venomous look. "This is procedure, too, and you know that. If we don't find it in your vehicle, you go back to the scene and --"

"Yeah, I know. Whatever."

Sudden anger made Gil's heart speed up. "Take some responsibility, Nick," he said sharply. "I have a lot less trouble with screwups than I do denials. Got that?"

Gazing at him, Nick said nothing for a moment. Then he shrugged. "Yeah. Got it."

"Go check. Let me know what you find."

He waited until Nick was down the hall, and then glanced at Catherine. "Would you mind telling me what the hell is going on?"

Her previous temper had cooled; she looked uneasy now, brow furrowed. "I have no idea. I want to believe him, but --" She broke off. "I don't know."

"Was he doing good work that night? Did you see anything out of the ordinary?"

"Gil, we've worked together for years. I don't watch over his shoulder every minute. I trust him."

Gil took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Yeah. Me, too. I'll go over to ballistics, see what I can find out." He looked at her again. "Any reason to suspect this shooting was something other than what it appeared to be?"

Catherine paused, and then shook her head. "Nah. Pretty straightforward gang shooting, from all appearances."

Gil nodded. "And?"

"Just -- The victim was Javier Montelongo. When I started looking into his background I found out he sometimes did some extracurricular activity."

"What kind?"

"Occasional police informant."

Gil raised an eyebrow. "So he pissed somebody off. Somebody found out. It happens."

"Add in Mike McAda," Catherine said softly. "I started to make some connections."

"Whatever else you can say about McAda, and that's a lot, my understanding is that he protects his sources pretty fiercely. What reason might he have?"

"I don't know. Probably just a coincidence."

Gil smiled faintly. "Maybe not. Look into it, okay, but keep it on the QT. I'm pretty sure I don't have to tell you why."

"Right. Nick's already pissed him off; I'm not looking for more trouble."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He spent fifteen minutes in ballistics. Didn't need longer; the empty evidence bag and Nick's prints spoke clearly enough.

His cell phone rang just as he was leaving.

"It's me."

"You looked in the car?"

There was a long pause, and finally Nick muttered, "Yeah."

"And?" Gil stopped in the hallway, concentrating. "Nick?"

"I found the casing under the passenger seat. Damn it, I SEALED it! There is no WAY that could have come open."

"It doesn't matter how," Gil said tightly. "What matters is the evidence. You know you won't be able to use it now."

"I didn't. Screw. This up," Nick told him in a soft, angry voice.

"So who did?"

"I don't know! All right? I just know it wasn't me!"

Later Gil thought about how he might have changed the entire subsequent course of events by saying one simple thing. I believe you. But nothing stopped him from saying what he actually said, which was, "Be that as it may, I'm holding you accountable for it. Your evidence, your responsibility."

After a tiny, shocked pause Nick whispered, "That's not fair. I told you the truth!"

"Go get Catherine and go back to the scene," Gil told him. "See what you can find. And Nick? I don't want this to happen again. All right?"

"Right," Nick grated before hanging up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was morning before he had the chance to speak with Catherine again. This time she looked exhausted, eyes shadowy with doubt.

"So?"

"Nothing. Site's clean. Like I said, Montelongo took one bullet. That casing was the only connection."

Gil nodded. "Nick still saying he didn't screw it up?"

Catherine shrugged. "Nick's not saying much of anything, at least not to me." She snorted humorlessly.

"Be that as it may, I can't let it slide. Accidental or not, he broke the chain of custody. That leaves us with a dead body and nothing to tie it to a shooter." He shook his head and made a face. "Damn it. What is going on with him? This isn't like Nick. He's usually a lot more careful."

Catherine stared at him silently, and then went over to push the door shut. Turning, she said, "Maybe we should talk about that, Gil."

He leaned back, watching her sit down opposite him. "If you've got information, I'm all ears."

"I do think there's something wrong." She glanced at him, and then down. "I don't have all the answers. Not yet, maybe not ever. But there are a few things."

"Such as?"

"He's had a hard time lately. That girl that was murdered -- Kristy -- Nigel Crane."

"I take that into consideration. Believe me."

She smiled faintly. "I know. It's -- There is something you don't know about. To my knowledge nobody does, but me."

He frowned. "And that is?"

"Maybe it's a long shot. Nick -- When we worked a case a while back, he told me some things. About his past." She looked up again, a set expression on her face. "It was the boy who died during the rebirthing treatment. Nick struggled very hard on that assignment, and afterward, he told me he'd been molested as a child."

Gil stared at her. "Molested?"

"A babysitter, when he was nine. Look, it was a long time ago, and I'm not saying I think it explains what he's doing now. I just don't think he's worked through it, that's all. And old shit -- It has a way of working its way back to the surface, years later."

Swallowing his alarm, Gil replied, "Post-traumatic stress, maybe?"

Catherine nodded slowly. "Maybe. And with the stuff that's happened more recently, I think maybe he's just having a hard time coping."

"Any one of those things would be difficult. Taken together, it makes a lot of sense." Gil paused, and sighed. "This is one of those times when I wish I'd studied psychology instead of biology."

She gave him a brief smile. "I hear that."

"So what can we do?"

"You're asking me? Hell if I know." She bit her lip. "I can try to talk to him. But I think I'm on his shit list now. I'm sure I am. If he's really having some kind of meltdown, though, I can't just sit back and watch it happen."

"Right. And if it's affecting his performance here, I can't do that, either." He took off his glasses and folded them carefully. "Why don't you go on home, Cath? We're not going to fix anything right now, and it's been a long night."

"You can say that again. For what it's worth, I'm sorry about that. I probably just made things worse by coming down so hard on him."

"You weren't the only one." He manufactured a smile for her. "We'll work it out."

Chapter Five

"Oh, that way madness lies; let me shun that."

(Shakespeare, King Lear, I:4)

"I want to see McAda."

The officer stared at him, looking less than impressed. "Who the hell are you?"

Nick shook his head. "Is he here?"

"He was," the man said grudgingly, "but he went off duty an hour ago."

"Then tell me where I can find him." When the officer said nothing Nick grated, "It's important."

"It's okay, Jack," a voice behind him stated. Nick flinched and looked around. "Hey, Nicky," McAda added, an affable smile on his face. "What brings you all the way over here?"

Nick swallowed fury. "You know what, you son of a bitch," he hissed. "What, did you think I wouldn't find out?"

The smile flickered but didn't disappear. "Why don't we step over there, what do you say? Little more private."

Hands clenching into useless fists, Nick followed him into the small office and waited for the door to be shut before snapping, "So? Why'd you do it, huh?"

"What'd I do?"

"The shell, goddamn it!"

McAda nodded slowly. "Heard about that. Bad luck."

"Luck's got nothing to do with it. I don't care if it was you, or one of your goddamn FRIENDS, but you fucked with my job, man, and that's --"

"Whoa, wait a second. Nobody's fucking with your job, Nicky." McAda put his hands up in a conciliatory gesture. "Cool off a little."

"Yeah, well, you'd be hot too if your boss had just ripped you a new one."

"What do you want me to say? Bad luck," he repeated evenly.

Nick nodded jerkily. "Yeah. I got it. Payback, huh?"

McAda sighed. "Look, Nicky, this has got nothing to do with you. You were the wrong guy in the wrong place at the wrong time. That's all."

"Tell that to Grissom," Nick shot back.

"So I owe you. All right? You don't say anything, and I owe you big-time. How's that?"

Nick stared at him. "You -- You want me to just -- roll over? You gotta be out of your mind!"

A faint smile quirked McAda's thin lips. "Some little guy gets capped. He's lowlife, a bottom feeder. We ain't talking about the President here."

Nick snorted, still give him a wide-eyed look. "You think I give a crap about your priorities? I care about as much as you do about mine, McAda. You messed with what I DO, man. I'm not gonna just walk away. No fucking way."

"You never know when you're gonna need a favor, Nicky," McAda returned tonelessly. The smile was gone. "And it doesn't hurt to know people. People who know other people. Favors can be real handy things." He leaned back against the metal desk and crossed his bulky arms. "Why do you care?" he added with what sounded like genuine curiosity. "Grissom got his panties in a wad. So what? Ain't the first time, that much I know. So why you getting all bent out of shape like this?"

Nick uttered a helpless cough of a laugh. "Jesus," he managed. "You really mean that, don't you?"

"What I mean is that you're turning yourself into a pretzel over a goddamn shell casing. And you don't even know for sure that was important evidence. For what, Nicky? Pleasing Grissom? Man, you know by now there ain't no pleasing that guy. You want respect? Be a cop. Grissom's all about what you can do for him. Period."

"You totally missed my point. Damn it, it isn't RIGHT! I don't know how you did it, but I'm gonna find out, and then --"

"And then what?" McAda interrupted heavily. "Tell somebody? Tell Grissom? What's that get you, huh? Does it bring that asshole back to life? Huh? Does that make Grissom suddenly sit up and say, 'Gosh, Nick, I never said this to anybody, but I really RESPECT you now?'"

He felt suddenly appallingly close to crying. The realization made him furious all over again. "I don't do this because it makes Grissom happy. I do it because it's the right thing to do."

McAda nodded. "Right for who? You?"

"Just -- right."

"The world ain't black and white, Nicky. Haven't you learned that by now?" A tired smile appeared on McAda's face. "Whatever. Look, I meant what I said about that favor. All right? Nobody meant this to make you look like shit. So whever you need something, you just let me know."

"I won't need anything from you," Nick said coldly.

McAda shrugged. "Maybe not. You thought about that offer I made you?"

Nick blinked. "Off -- I told you, man, forget about it."

"I meant what I said," McAda continued, unperturbed. "I like you. I think you'd be a great asset to my team. Now I know you're pissed at me right now, but you think about it, all right? Where you going over at CSI, huh? Gonna do Grissom's shit work for the next twenty years? Or do you want to turn that sense of right into something that actually makes a difference?"

Nick glared at him, but no words would come out.

"How about you just give it some thought. Cool off a little, think about what I said. And when you wanna talk, you know where to find me."

He stood in the silent office after McAda left, stewing. And finally he left, too, because there really wasn't anything else to do but that.

~~~~~~~~~~~

"Wow."

He made himself look over at Sara. "Huh?"

"You ever heard of this thing called sleep?"

Nick went back to fumbling in his locker. "That's pretty good coming from you."

"Hey, I know an insomniac when I see one." She leaned one shoulder against the lockers, hands in her pockets. "You okay?"

"Just need some coffee, that's all," he replied, slamming the door shut.

"How long?"

"How long what?"

Man, sometimes he really hated the way Sara's jaw stuck out when she was onto something. Or thought she was, anyway. "Since you slept?"

Nick sighed and faced her. "Not that long," he lied easily. "Don't worry about it."

"Nick, if you --"

"Look, Sara, it's not a problem. I'm functional, all right? So quit dogging me, okay?" He brushed past her and couldn't not hear her whisper, "Whatever you say."

And he WAS functional, yessirree, all pistons firing, if a bit sluggishly at times. So why people were giving him the hairy eyeball, he couldn't figure out and didn't try. Didn't matter. Not much of anything mattered at this point.

From the frying pan to the fire, fifteen minutes later, because he was set to work with Grissom himself. Wasn't that a treat. Nick just nodded when Griss gave out the assignment, and waited for the master to fill him in.

"Everything all right?" Grissom asked him suddenly, after the others had split.

Nick shrugged. "Fine. What's up?"

"Missing person. Seven-year-old boy." But Grissom didn't move. Still regarding him with that piercing stare. "Have you looked in the mirror today?"

"I shaved. Since I didn't cut my lips off I guess I had to look, why?"

Grissom nodded. "You look tired, Nicky," he said in a stupidly gentle voice.

"I'm all right. We should get a move on."

In the hallway Grissom stopped to ask Warrick something, and Nick murmured, "Pit stop," and headed for the restroom. In a stall he hesitated for only a moment before taking the twist of foil out of his pocket.

Ten minutes later they were on their way. When Griss gave him another searching look Nick just smiled. Feel fine, boss. Just -- fine.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The house was a well-kept disaster. The classic rental look: forlorn yard with a little grass struggling to stay alive in desert dryness, a few flowers curling up next to the porch. The kind of place where the landlord didn't want to pay for anything that didn't have to be fixed, and the renters couldn't. Clean, and utterly dismal.

Nick meandered through the living room not far behind Grissom, glancing around. Shabby furniture and not a speck of dust. The mother sat in a kind of glassy shellshocked silence on the elderly sofa, relatives silent and tense around her.

"Mrs. Gomez?" Grissom stopped in front of her. "I'm Gil Grissom, with the Las Vegas crime lab."

Mrs. Gomez shook his hand limply, eyes welling with tears.

"Can I ask you some questions about Manuel?" When she nodded, he continued, "The police officers tell me you and your husband are separated. Is there any reason to think Mr. Gomez might be involved?"

She shrugged, wiping at the tears. "No hablo ingles, senor, I'm sorry -- Angie, que el dijo?"

A heavyset woman standing behind her spoke up. "Her husband's crazy. He took Manuelito."

"Where has he been staying? Do you know?"

Quick interest fading just as fast, Nick watched the people filing in and out of the house. Family, mostly, or at least that was what it looked like. Cops --

"Hey, Grissom." One of the policemen came up on Grissom's other side. "You need us? 'Cause we gave all we got to Brass, and we gotta roll."

"No, that's okay. Thanks."

Oddly enough, it felt as if there were fireworks going off, only it appeared to be inside his head. Nick swallowed hard, shaking his head, and ducked away to stumble down the single narrow hallway. Nobody around, mercifully, and he found the bathroom with no trouble. He turned the water on before he threw up, and spared a prayer that nobody heard him before he bent over with new spasms.

Chapter Six

Isn't hate merely the result of wounded love?

(Amy Tan)

"I like happy endings. They're so startling."

Brass gave him a look. "I thought I was the resident cynic around here."

"'The power of accurate observation is commonly called cynicism by those who have not got it.'" Gil smiled faintly. "George Bernard Shaw. So we found Manuel." He scanned the front yard, losing the smile. "And we lost Nick. Have you seen him?"

"I didn't even know he was here."

"Great." Gil shook his head. "Don't call off the hounds just yet."

As it happened, he was around, after a fashion. Sitting in the ratty backyard, almost invisible in his dark clothes. Gil drew a careful breath. "Nick?"

"Yeah."

"What are you doing? They found the boy half an hour ago."

"Cool."

Nick's face gleamed pale in the murky dark. "What's going on, Nick?" Gil asked quietly, walking up to him. "You disappeared."

Staring straight ahead, Nick said, "Too hot in there. Sorry. Had to get some air."

Gil reached out to do something, maybe touch Nick's shoulder, he never knew exactly what. Nick's words froze him in place.

"If you touch me, so help me God, I'll kill you."

He felt his heart take a startled leap in his chest. The flat malevolence in Nick's voice made him want to shiver.

"We out of here?"

This time he did shiver, because this was Nick's normal voice. Light, easy, nothing murderous about it. "Yeah," Gil replied after a shocked moment. "Yeah, let's go."

They drove back to the lab in absolute silence. And silence was usually just fine, but this particular evening Gil felt his last nerve stretched to the breaking point. He parked the Tahoe and didn't move. When Nick's hand went to the door Gil said, "Wait a second."

He couldn't think of how to start, and finally Nick snapped, "What?"

"I need you to tell me what's wrong," Gil replied quietly. The steering wheel was cool under his fingers.

Nick sighed audibly. "Here we go again."

"You still pissed at me about the Montelongo thing?"

"Nope."

"Then what? What's going on?"

"Nothing."

Gil nodded slowly, clenching his fingers on the smooth plastic. "Gonna take McAda's offer?" he asked softly.

He could feel Nick's shocked glance, like a spray of cold water. "You know about that?"

"I heard. Well?"

Nick shifted, the motion loud in the hushed truck. "No. I don't think so."

"I wish you wouldn't."

In a remote voice Nick said, "Probably won't."

"I have some theories. Want to hear them?"

"Does it matter?"

"You ditched me tonight, Nick." Gil shook his head slowly. "I need to know why you did that. I could have used your help."

"Turned out all right, didn't it?"

"What if it hadn't? I need you to work, not disappear."

"Sorry." The hell of it was, he sounded sorry. "I didn't feel good. That's the truth."

And what has everything else been lately? Lies? "If you don't feel well, you can tell me."

"I'm all right now."

Gil raised his hand and slammed it down on the dash. The noise was wonderfully startling, mostly because it made Nick flinch. "God damn it, you're not all right. You think I'm an idiot? You're having some kind of meltdown and you think I don't *notice*?"

When he looked over at Nick, his quick anger faded to shock. Nick's face was drawn with a kind of rage that left him far, far behind. "It's none of your goddamn business," Nick spat icily, eyes narrowed to slits. "SIR."

"You're making it my business."

Nick snorted. "I don't think so."

"Okay, Nick. Have it your way." Anger surged again, bitter and satisfying. "You can think about what I said when you go home. You're suspended."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Even without the details, his staff took one look at him and knew enough to stay out of his way. On another day, in another situation, he would have hated thinking they were afraid of him, in any real way. But tonight it only mattered in that it served his purpose. He was too angry to care.

He sorted through crap on his desk, glanced without interest at the reports piled in his inbox, and finally just pushed it all away and sat still. God, anger was like a cancer, a malignant THING that just spread through everything, affecting the whole body, the environment. And it felt so damn GOOD.

After an hour it stopped feeling so great.

When Catherine risked a wary look inside Gil waved her in.

"I won't bite," he told her pallidly.

"You sure?"

"Have a seat."

She sat like someone perched on top of a tall stack of C4. "What happened?"

"Shows, huh?"

"Let's see. You found the kid, but you look like somebody put Raid on your racing cockroaches." Catherine smiled cautiously. "So since the case worked out fine, I figure it's not that. And Nick's nowhere to be seen. Am I warm yet?"

Gil nodded slowly. "I suspended him."

"Shit," she replied in a weak voice.

"Probably shouldn't have waited this long. I don't know. Not sure about anything."

"So...something happened tonight, I take it."

"He disappeared. In the middle of interviewing the mother, I look around and he's gone. I found him about two hours later, and let's just say his explanation was less than satisfactory." Gil forced a shrug. "Nick's falling apart, Cath, and he's a liability. He won't talk, won't tell me what's going on." He glanced at her. "Has he said anything to you? At all?"

She shook her head. "Not a word. It's like he's -- imploding."

"Yeah. He told me tonight if I touched him he'd kill me. I think he meant it."

"That doesn't sound like him."

Gil snorted. "Evil twin, maybe. But not Nick."

"How long did you suspend him?"

"A week. But it might have been the wrong thing to do. I don't know anymore." He gazed at her. "Mike McAda offered him a job."

Catherine blinked. "A -- Police job?"

"That's what I hear. Nick didn't deny it."

"No way. There is no way Nick would work with that guy!"

"Normally I'd agree with you. Now? All bets are off."

She was silent for a long moment. Finally she heaved a huge sigh. "Gil, I don't even know what to say. Nick's a friend, he's a great guy. But he's set on self-destruct right now. He's not talking to anybody."

"Maybe we should try sodium pentothal." Gil made a face at her surprised look. "Not really." He sat up. "I have to go."

"It's quitting time anyway. You look like you could use some rest."

"I could." He nodded, standing up.

Catherine stood as well, eyes too knowing. "But that's not what you're going to do, is it?"

"No."

"Be careful, Gil. All right?"

"Definitely."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

He rang the bell six times before Nick answered. Seeing his face Gil wasn't sure this was the right idea after all.

"What do you want?" Nick asked hoarsely, keeping the chain locked and speaking through the two-inch crack.

"I want to talk to you. Will you let me?"

"You wanna gloat?"

Gil shook his head sadly. "No, Nick. I'd like to understand."

The door closed, and then reopened without the chain. "Go to town," Nick muttered, and turned away.

He hadn't seen Nick's apartment in a while, but he remembered a pretty nice place. This, however, was not at all what he recalled. The mess was catastrophic. He nearly tripped over an empty pizza box -- oh, not quite empty, damn -- and made himself not just stare around himself in complete shock.

If he'd needed further proof Nick was in a downward spiral, he'd found it.

Nick sat on the single clean space on the couch, drawing his knees up against his chest. "You should go away," he said in a low voice.

Gil moved a plate and a half-eaten bagel off one of the dining chairs and sat down carefully. "Please talk to me, Nick," he said, taking in the dark smudges under Nick's flickering eyes, the jittery tap of one foot. "Let me try to help you?"

"What do you really want?" Turned his direction, Nick's gaze was unsettlingly bright, a hot glare of suspicion. "Looking for a reason to go ahead and fire me? Huh? That it?"

"No. No, that's not it at all. I'm not here to fire you." Gil swallowed. "I know you've had some bad things happen recently, all right? But I look at you, and -- I mean, look at this place. How can you stand it?"

Nick blinked and glanced furtively around. "I know, I gotta clean up." With a creeping kind of new dismay Gil felt as if he could SEE Nick not-seeing it. "I'll get to it."

"Is it Nigel Crane?"

That earned him a sharper glance, but not the recognition he'd vaguely hoped for. "Is what Nigel Crane?"

"I thought maybe he --"

"It's not Crane," Nick interrupted stolidly. "Next question, or is that it and you're gonna leave me alone now?"

"What are those?" Gil asked after a moment. He lifted his chin at the bottle of pills on the cluttered coffee table.

"Prescription. Why?"

"What for?"

"Jesus, you know that's pretty goddamned personal, Grissom." Nick gave him a savage grin. "Gonna root through my garbage next, see what else you can find?"

He thought about snapping that he didn't HAVE to root, since it was all around them. "What else would I find?" he asked instead, trying not to show his dismay. "Would I find anything, Nick?"

Nick's gaze hardened to shiny agate. "Get out," he whispered.

"Was it what happened when you were nine?"

It hurt to see Nick's face crumple like this. Utterly shocked, for once. Even worse than when he'd suspended him. "What?"

"Catherine told me." Gil had to swallow. "She told me what happened. Oh, Nick."

"That was a long time ago," Nick told him hollowly. "I'm over it."

"Are you? Really?"

Without warning Nick shot to his feet, moving so fast Gil was taken aback. "So this is it, huh? Take potshots at my personal history and hope you hit a bull's-eye?" He stepped nimbly over the trash on the floor, coming to a halt with his back to the far wall. "You have no idea what you're talking about," he said in a hard voice. "No fucking clue."

"Then give me a clue, damn it." Gil stood up, not moving toward him. "Let me in, Nick!"

Nick smiled, and spat, "You can let yourself out."

Gil watched him disappear into the bedroom, the slam of the door reverberating in his very bones.

Chapter Seven

One of the reasons people cling to their hates so stubbornly is because they seem to sense,

once hate is gone, that they will be forced to deal with pain.

(James Baldwin)

Because eventually he couldn't think of anything else to do with himself, he went by Persimmon's apartment. She wasn't exactly overjoyed to see him.

"You could've called," she said, lower lip actually trembling a little. But she let him in.

"Sorry," he replied with a vague sense of discomfort. "Things got busy."

Persie picked up a half-full glass of wine and sipped it. "Don't you gotta work or something?"

"Not this week. Wanna go out?"

"Where?"

"Don't care."

A reluctant smile twitched her lips. "You look kinda skanky, Nick-eee."

He reached up and tried to flatten his spiky hair, and Persie shook her head. "Come on, I'll help you clean up."

"S'not like anybody's gonna notice." But he followed her into the bathroom anyway.

Instead of taming his rebellious hair Persie went with the flow, turning it into a punky sort of scary stand-up crewcut, and that was kind of perfect, so Nick didn't try to change it. He put on the shirt he'd left there before, and waited for her to change clothes.

"What's that?" he asked, touching a bruise on her arm.

"Got it dancing." She grinned while she pulled a microscopic dress over her head. "Got a little too wasted."

"Didn't know there was such a thing."

"Says the Boy Scout."

"Not these days."

They went to a dingy, packed club and hooked up with some of Persie's friends, of course. After all that Nick didn't much feel like dancing, but he watched Persie and drank straight bourbon, and felt as if this was where he should stay forever. Where the music was punishingly loud, the people superficial, and the atmosphere utterly forgiving. There would be no problems here. Couldn't be. It was all fantasy.

He took a tab of something Brandon gave him, around midnight, and that felt so hot and delicious that he fucked Persie in the parking lot, and felt like he could have kept right on going until sunrise. But it didn't last, nothing ever did, and the urge was there. He didn't try to fight it. Fighting just made things harder, and the end was always the same anyway.

"How long you been flying?" Brandon asked, after he'd handed Nick what he needed.

Nick sagged back in the passenger seat of Brandon's elderly Delta 88, wiping stinging tears off his face. "What's today?"

"Sunday, man."

"A while." He opened his eyes and grinned. "Let's get food."

They took him to a diner, but by the time the food arrived he wasn't very hungry. He sat tapping his foot, watching people come and go with a lot more interest than he understood.

"I'm gonna write a book," he announced at some point.

"Cool," Persie said around a mouthful of burger. "What kind?"

"About how fucking stupid most crooks are. You know? Dumb as a box of hair."

That made everyone laugh so much that he had to laugh, too.

Around six in the morning he ended up back at Persie's, but she crashed almost immediately. So he drove around, the good feeling morphing into a kind of creeping horrible tiredness that made him feel sick. He maneuvered home by sheer sense memory. How long HAD it been since he slept? A weird sense of alarm made his skin prickle as he crawled out of the truck. He couldn't remember, and that was suddenly terrifying.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

He woke up drenched with sweat, panting from something already lost in a vanishing dream. 3:00 in the afternoon. It took forcing himself out of bed and turning on the tube to realize it wasn't Sunday afternoon, but Monday.

Monday. Work today. No more suspension. Work, in three hours.

A shower didn't do the trick. Coffee didn't, either. So he did a bump, and another a few minutes before it was time to leave, and felt pretty good again. Wonderfully good.

So when Grissom announced a random drug test at work, he was completely unprepared.

"Waste of time, I know," Grissom stated, waving his hand at the murmurs. "I don't make the rules, people. So please get there, do it and get back fast, all right? This is going to put us behind schedule."

It felt like a dream. Nightmare. He hadn't thought. Hadn't ever, ever envisioned this happening. Stupid, oh Jesus H. Christ, as stupid as anyone he'd ever seen in his life. He went with Warrick to the employee health office, peed in a cup while an impassive, kind of huffy tech looked on.

So this was how it ended. What was it that guy had said? Not with a bang, but with a whimper?

Back at the lab he accepted his assignment numbly, too frozen with absolute dread to care who he worked with, or on what. Not even thinking about no more suspension. Didn't much matter, when he'd be facing termination soon enough. But hadn't he not cared about that, just a few days ago? Now that it was real, he couldn't even imagine it.

An hour later he got a few minutes to himself, and went outside. He dialed with shaking fingers, scanning the business card through a scrim of scared tears.

"McAda."

"It's Nick."

"Nicky." No trace of anger over their confrontation. He'd never figure McAda out. "What's up?"

"You said you owed me," Nick said in a hoarse whisper. "Did you mean it?"

"Of course," McAda said promptly. "You name it, man."

"You said you know people. Everybody knows you know people. You can -- fix things."

A tiny silence, and then McAda replied, "Maybe, yeah. What's going on?"

He bit his lip so hard it actually made the urge to cry retreat a little. "I got a problem. A big problem."

"After you doing for me, I'm gonna do for you, Nicky. Tell me."

"Drug test."

"Ah." He felt as if he could hear the smile on McAda's face. "That kinda problem."

His hands were shaking so much he had to hold the phone tight just to keep it from squirting out of his grip. "I need you to make that go away," he whispered, feeling like he was reading lines from a cliche'ed play. "Can you do that?"

"Where?"

He gave the name of the lab, and waited for a moment. Then McAda said, "What's your cell number? Call you back when I can."

He spoke it, and added, "I don't -- I fucked up, man, I can't --"

"Don't worry. I'll take care of it." The smiling voice was back. Sounding a little too warm. "I take care of my people, Nicky. Remember that. All right?"

"Okay," Nick said softly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"It's good to have you back, Nick."

He gave Catherine a distracted glance. "Thanks, good to be back."

She smiled and touched his arm, a cool press of fingers, and the room blurred and splintered. Sounds, and a flash of blue light, strobing inside his head until he thought he'd start to scream from the idiot repetition. The sense of more than one hand, not cool but warm and strong, on his arm, on his --

"NICK!"

He drew a strangled breath and lurched backward, slamming against the far wall hard enough to push that necessary air right back out of his lungs. Catherine's face was a study in consternation. "Jesus, Nicky, are you okay? What was that?"

Nick shook his head wildly and felt cool air on his face. His wet face, crap, when had THAT happened? He wiped his cheeks and rasped, "Sorry. Sorry, I don't -- Dunno what happened."

"You look like you're about to fall over, come on." She put out her hand again and Nick shrank back against the wall.

"It's okay, I'm fine. Just -- I'm fine. Don't do that."

"Do what?" She looked bewildered, as well as alarmed. "Let me give you a hand, get you someplace where you can sit down, all right?"

"NO!" he thundered, shaking his head so hard it made him dizzy. "No, don't DO that, I told you, DON'T!"

Whatever Catherine might have said next, he never knew. Saved by the bell: His cell phone beeped at him. He peeled himself off the wall and ducked away, heading out the side door.

"Nicky, you okay?"

God, it would be so nice to believe McAda was half as kind as his voice suggested. He wanted to believe it, so damn much. "Yeah," he wheezed. "I'm okay. Did you --?"

"All taken care of, baby. Just like I said."

His knees turned into water. He sagged down on the concrete and didn't even notice the hard jolt through his tailbone. "Thank God," he breathed without strength. "Oh, God."

"You're welcome, Nicky," came McAda's smug reply. "No problemo."

~~~~~~

"You sure you want this?"

Nick just stared at him, and finally Brandon gave a little shrug. "Rock on, man. Far be it for me to stop somebody from getting in touch with his inner landscape."

It didn't burn as much as meth going up his nose. He sat back and watched the people. Didn't know anyone, didn't care to know them. What he cared about, he already had.

"Feels good, huh."

Nick nodded. "Party?"

"Random. Want me to introduce you?"

"Nah."

"Wanna tell me what happened?"

He gave Brandon a warm look. "Thanks for asking, man."

Brandon went kind of pink. "Just looking out for my buddy."

"Yeah."

~~~~~~~~

He was dizzy, and his arms didn't work very well, but he could still watch. Still take it in.

"What's that?" he asked blurrily.

"The good stuff," Brandon said with a slow smile.

His senses felt so amplified, he almost heard the pop of the needle going into Brandon's arm. And the radiant look on Brandon's face made him feel a terrible yearning. "You look so happy," Nick whispered. His eyes stung with acid tears. "Never seen anybody look so fucking happy."

"Come on." Brandon held out his hand, and after a minute Nick let him grasp his wrist.

He'd always hated shots.

"Don't worry about it, man." Brandon's face bobbed in front of him.

He didn't mind so much, this time. No, not if that glow was the reward.

~~~~~~

The glow is warmth, the glow is all about peace. He's the glow.

"He's just takin' a ride, man, don't worry about it." It sounds very, very far away. Like a phone call from Neptune or something. Maybe it is.

It makes everything go away. It's the answer.

"Pretty Nick-eeee, wake up...."

Persimmon is radiant. So beautiful, his heart wants to stop beating and stare, too.

"You're so gorgeous," he whispers. Her hair is silky under his hand. "Know that?"

She smiles and her face splinters into bright fragments. A meteor shower of beauty.

Chapter Eight

If there wasn't anything to find out, it would be dull. Even trying to find out and not finding out

is just as interesting as trying to find out and finding out; and I don't know but more so.

(Mark Twain)

"You know, I really prefer it when we're investigating people we don't know."

"Don't we all. That's it? You touched him, he freaked -- and nothing?"

"Well, he got a phone call." Catherine leaned back and sighed. "And to head you off at the pass: No, I don't know who from. Have I mentioned this is uncomfortable?"

"Several times now."

"Maybe it bears repeating. I'm not going to spy on him."

"If we don't figure this out, what's going to happen?" He held up a hand, forestalling her reply. "I know, maybe nothing. But you came to me, Catherine, remember? You were sufficiently concerned to bring it to my attention. So tell me what you think."

She shrugged tiredly. "I think he's a nice kid who's had a shitload of stuff happen to him. And it's catching up."

"I might be able to add to the tally," came a voice from the doorway. Gil looked over and Brass made a wry face. "Sorry, didn't mean to eavesdrop."

"Well, let's just make this the Spy On Nick Club, why don't we?" Catherine said acerbically. "And next week we'll put surveillance cameras in YOUR house, Jim, how about that?"

"Won't see much, but if you must."

"What's that?" Gil asked, eyeing the file in Brass's hand.

"Something I shouldn't have seen. But I did, and well, since we're on the subject."

"Nick?"

"No, Santa Claus." He pushed the door to with one foot and came over to the desk. "Has Nick said anything about some kind of assault?"

Gil blinked. "Recently? Since the Crane thing? Not to me."

"Not to me," Catherine agreed. "Why? Was there one?"

"Not completely sure." He pulled up a chair and sat down heavily. "I was over at the 14th's station house yesterday, got a couple of friends over there. Whatever. While I was there, I heard Nick's name mentioned. While the officers were otherwise occupied, I had a look."

"In other words, you broke the law."

"Considering what I've heard of the current situation, I'd rather call it benevolent inquiry. Wouldn't you?" he shot back calmly.

"Tell us," Gil said.

"Sometime late Sunday night, May 4th. Police went to the ER at Memorial to take a statement from a victim. Nick, evidently."

Gil narrowed his eyes. "Victim? Of what?"

"Some kind of assault."

Catherine cast Gil a fast look. "May 4th. That was over a month ago. He never said anything about this to me."

"Nor anyone that I know of." Gil nodded. "So he made a report. What does it say?"

"Love to tell you, but evidently he changed his mind." Brass made a face. "When a detective called him a week later to discuss the matter he said he wasn't pursuing it. The officers considered it serious enough to warrant further investigation. Our Nicky didn't agree."

Gil crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair. "Or couldn't face it," he added quietly.

Catherine gave him a surprised glance. "What? He didn't get beaten up; we would have noticed that. I mean, it doesn't --" She broke off, studying him. "Gil, you're not saying what I -- Oh, shit."

"Which detective?"

Brass looked even more uncomfortable. "John Newsom."

"You know him?"

"Yeah."

When he didn't add anything Gil leaned forward. "And?"

"Works Special Crimes."

Catherine put a hand over her eyes.

Gil nodded grimly. "Sex crimes."

"Yeah."

Nobody said anything for a long moment. Finally Gil looked at Catherine, taking in her pale face. "I think we just graduated from spying to an actual investigation."

"He didn't want us to know," she replied hollowly. "This is private, Gil. We have no right to -- KNOW this."

"And so we do what? Let him keep right on self-destructing? I don't know about you, but I'm having a hard time doing that," he added with more venom than he'd realized.

"She's right, Gil," Brass said heavily. "I shouldn't have done it. Happened to me? I'd be burying that so deep they'd dig it up a hundred years from now in China."

"That's exactly what Nick tried to do. Only things like that have this tendency not to stay buried, Jim. Repressed trauma doesn't stay repressed. Not forever."

Brass just nodded. "All the same, I'm glad you have to deal with this and not me." He laid the file on Gil's desk and stood up. "Not sure if I didn't just fuck things up worse than before," he said quietly, before walking out.

Staring sightlessly after him, Gil said, "It explains everything. Everything, Cath."

"And what are we supposed to do now? Huh? Confront him?" She laughed harshly. "THAT would help."

"Classic post-traumatic stress." He looked at her, shaking his head slowly. "And I never saw it. Never recognized it for what it was."

She leaned her chin on her elbow. "How could you? You didn't know."

"But now we do."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Nowhere. I'm telling you, he ain't here."

Gil glared at Warrick, trying to ignore the way his heart had sped up. "Didn't answer his phone? Pager?"

Warrick shook his head. "Nothing, man, he's incommunicado. What's going on?"

"Shit." Gil stood up so fast the room tilted for a second. "Seen Catherine?"

Warrick kept right on frowning at him. "Outside. Nick in trouble?"

"I think he's in a lot of trouble, yeah."

Catherine looked about as pinched and unhappy as Gil had ever seen her. Which was saying something. "Nobody's seen him, Gil. Not since I did."

"Still think we should keep out of it?" he shot back, and felt a flicker of nasty satisfaction when her gaze faltered. "Warrick? You'll hold down the fort?"

"Where you going? Man, will somebody just tell me SOMETHING?"

Gil shook his head. "Later, I promise. Cath?"

She paused, and sighed. "Right."

Nick's vehicle was gone. Of course.

"Home?" Catherine asked, walking up to stand next to him in the parking lot.

"Maybe. We can try."

But he wasn't at home. No car, no Nick.

Back inside the Tahoe Gil hit the cell phone number for the millionth time. "Where else?" he asked her, sticking the key in the ignition.

"You think I know?"

"I don't --"

Somebody picked up. But the voice wasn't Nick's.

"Who is this?" Gil demanded, sitting still.

"Whoa, this is Nick's phone, right?" The woman -- sounded more like a girl -- giggled. "Nobody knew whose phone this was. Keeps ringing. Was that you?"

"Probably. Who the hell are you?"

"Persimmon." Another giggle. "You looking for Nick-eeee?"

"Yes. Is he there?"

"Some of him."

Clamping down on sudden fury, Gil asked icily, "Where?"

"Um." There was a lot of noise suddenly, like the phone had been set down, none too gently. "BRANDON!"

Catherine touched his arm and it made him jump. "Who is it?" she mouthed.

"A friend of Nick's, evidently." He couldn't keep the distaste, or the terrible burgeoning fear, out of his voice.

"Hello?" Absurdly normal voice, and still not the one he so needed to hear.

"Brandon? Where the hell is Nick?"

"Oh. Right here, man. Who's this?"

"This is Nick's boss," Gil spat. "I need to speak with him. Now."

"Oh, shit. Boss? Look, man, this has got nothing to do with me, you know, I just --"

"I don't give a shit what you have to do with it, all right? Just bring Nick to the goddamn phone."

There was a long, pregnant pause, and then the Brandon person replied, "No can do, man."

"Why not?"

A tiny, suppressed laugh. "He's sick."

He wondered if he might not just have a stroke right then and there. His head was pounding. "Sick in what way?"

"Dude, I'm not gonna cost him his JOB, you think I'm that kinda guy?"

"Then let's make this easy. Tell me where he is, and I'll take it from there."

"You a cop?"

"NO!" Gil exploded, and Catherine jumped next to him. "I'm not a goddamn police officer! Just tell me where he IS!"

"Calm down, man, all right, all right. He's right here. PERSIE!" he yelled. "What's the address here?"

After a moment Brandon told him the address, and then hung up before Gil could say anything else. Gil dropped the phone as if it had burned him.

"Where?" Catherine asked simply. When he looked at her he was distantly shocked at the drawn look on her face. "He's fucked up, isn't he?"

He couldn't think of a reply, so he just nodded. And started the car.

~~~~~~~~

The building reminded him of a place he'd spent a semester in, way back in California. Used to be a single-dwelling house, turned into too many tiny apartments.

"Which one?" Catherine asked, rather unnecessarily, he thought.

"No idea. Let's split up."

Nobody answered the first three doors he tried. But the fourth door opened, slowly. A pale, very pretty face peered out.

"Persimmon?" Gil asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Is that you?"

She nodded cautiously. Her pupils were astonishingly dilated. "You gonna fire him?"

"Where is he?"

She kept right on giving him that doubtful stare, but finally opened the door a little wider.

"He's okay," she said behind him. "Honest."

Gil stepped over the random detritus on the floor. "Where?"

"Bedroom. It's over there." She pointed a shaky finger to the left.

"Gil?"

He flinched, casting a fast look over his shoulder. Catherine was picking her way over to him, eyes wide. "Man, was I ever that loaded?" she asked him, shaking her head. And then they were in the bedroom, and all she said was, "Shit."

"Call an ambulance," Gil said curtly. "Go."

Was he even breathing? Terrible dread curdled in his belly. But no, there went his chest. Up and down, just like it should. Gil stepped closer to the bed and made himself look.

And oh, he'd so prayed not to have anyone join the Holly Gribbs Memorial site inside his head, but Nick looked one step from it. "Nick." He leaned over, touching Nick's bare shoulder and almost recoiling from the cool, damp feel of his flesh. "Nicky, wake up. Come on. Look at me, all right?" Gil sat down carefully on the edge of the bed, wincing at the squeal of the springs. "Look at me. Wake up and look at me, damn it." He put a hand on Nick's cheek and turned his head. Nick's half-open eyes wandered, pupils blown so wide it was no wonder they didn't see. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

"He's okay, right?" came a small voice behind him.

"No," Gil snapped briefly. "He's not okay. What did you give him?"

"Nothing, I swear to God, man, I don't give him stuff. That's --"

He whipped around to glare at her, and she took a step toward the door. "Then who? And what?"

"I don't know," she whispered, eyes gleaming with tears. "I don't know! I came home and he was like this, all right?"

It didn't take seeing her eyes avoid his to know she was lying. "How long ago?"

"A -- About two hours ago but --"

"Damn it." He erased her from his mind, turning back to the bed. "Come on, Nicky," he heard himself say in a weird, crooning voice. A begging kind of voice. "Come on, honey. Just look at me. Let me know you're okay."

Nick frowned at him, and then gave him a slow, ecstatic smile. He whispered something, but it was all air.

"Say that again, all right?" He leaned over, putting his ear a few inches from Nick's lips. "I couldn't hear you."

Still smiling, Nick murmured, "Go away."

Gil sat up sharply, fighting down a flicker of hurt. "No," he replied hoarsely. "I won't go away. Come on, sit up."

Nick closed his eyes and scratched his belly under the blanket. "Stomach hurts."

"Make him sit up," Catherine said behind Gil's back. "If he throws up he'll aspirate it."

"Give me a hand."

Between them they got him to sit up, and Catherine gave Gil a cold, grim look. "When I find who gave him this shit I'm gonna eviscerate them."

There were sirens in the distance. Gil shrugged. "You really think that would help?"

"Make me feel better."

Gil stared at Nick's white face. "That's the thing, isn't it?" he said softly.

She didn't reply, and then Nick gave him a goofy, gentle smile. It made him feel like crying.

Chapter Nine

 Men who can succeed in deceiving no one else, will succeed at last in deceiving themselves.

(Anthony Trollope)

"Ready?"

He looked up from buttoning his shirt -- a perfectly normal act rendered somewhat abnormal by his clumsy hands -- and shrugged tiredly. "Don't you gotta work sometime?"

"Sometime, yes. Not right now." Grissom leaned against the exam room doorway, face so composed Nick felt distinctly uncomfortable. "I sent Catherine back to the lab."

Nick nodded and stood up warily. Floor staying where it should, check. Now to just survive the drive home with the boss. Made everything else sound really simple.

The bright sunlight outside made him wince. "What time is it?" he asked, shading his eyes.

"A lot later than it should be." Grissom unlocked the Tahoe and opened the door for him. "About ten."

They drove in silence, not even the annoying ring of Grissom's cell phone to cut the glacial quiet. He was scared to look at him. Can't fuck up but GOOD, can you, Nick-eee?

Truth was, he didn't remember any of it. Evidently he'd missed quite a show, but what he picked up later he'd just as soon not know about. Chased down by the boss, freaked out his friends, topped off by a ride to the ER, where a Pakistani doctor's dour face was the first thing he remembered in about -- what? a day? Something like that.

Out of all the freaky shit, though, the freakiest was Grissom.

If he'd expected anything, which was doubtful since he'd operated under the assumption of secrecy and secrecy didn't open itself for this sort of expectation, he'd have figured Grissom to blow. Fire him, certainly; rip him a new one, definitely. Anything else was outside the parameters.

But it wasn't playing out that way at all. Instead of flipping, Grissom was Handling the Situation. From evidently getting Nick's sorry wiped-out ass to the hospital, to maneuvering through the thicket of questionable legal issues and the attendant interview with law enforcement -- something Nick had fortunately been able to avoid for the time being -- to assuaging the doctor's doubts with promises that Nick would be taken care of at home, all the bases were covered. Slicker than snot.

Couldn't be this easy. There had to be a pricetag somewhere. And Nick was pretty damn sure Griss would be handing him the ticket soon.

Grissom parked the truck on the street and frowned. "Where's your car?"

Nick glanced around doubtfully. "I have no idea. Persie's, I guess."

Grissom's lips clamped shut over whatever he was about to say regarding Nick's choice in friends, and he climbed out.

The apartment was a shock. Jesus H. Christ, it looked like a garbage bomb had gone off. Had it really gotten this out of hand? Nick stood a foot inside and wrinkled his nose. "Stinks."

"Come on. Let's at least get the trash out, all right?"

It was too alien to even be embarrassing. It felt like someone else's crap. Between them they got the worst of it out, including the parts that stank. The kitchen was a disaster, but once the dishwasher was running it looked a little more in control.

"That'll hold it," Grissom said finally. Guy hadn't even broken a sweat. Nick on the other hand was soaked, and ridiculously tired. "Sit down," Griss added. "Working out toxins is one thing, but don't overdo it."

He did make some coffee, after scrubbing out the pot, and finally there wasn't anything else to do but sit down and wait for the other shoe to drop. Which it did, after a fashion.

Grissom sat tensely on the couch. "I don't even know where to start," he said in a hollow voice.

Nick gulped coffee greedily, wishing for something to wake himself up, rev his sleepy brain. "I figure it you were gonna fire me you would've already." He smiled, but Grissom didn't.

"Frankly that's the least of my concerns. But I need to hear you say you won't end up like this again. Can you do that?"

Nick stared at him. "End up like what? I mean, I'm sorry about the mess, but --"

"You think I mean the apartment?" Grissom snorted and set down his coffee cup. "That's not what I mean. I mean YOU."

"Look, it's not a problem, okay? I can handle it. I just had a bad night, you know."

It sounded lame to himself, so it had to sound lousy to Grissom. "It IS a problem," Griss told him quietly. "And I know you know that."

Funny how talking about his problem made him want to dive into the problem headfirst. He fidgeted.

"I know about it, Nick," Grissom added. His face was calm, but his voice shivered with tension. "I wish you'd told me. Even if you didn't tell anyone else, I wish you'd told me about it."

"Look, I know things got a little out of control. Okay, a lot," he amended at Grissom's pointed look. "But that won't happen again. I promise."

"What, the drugs?"

"Well. Yeah."

"That's not what I'm talking about."

"I don't -- I've never done this, you know, before. I just got curious, you know, and --"

"Nick. Wait a second."

The absurdly kind look on Grissom's face made every nerve in Nick's body sing out with alarm. "I believe you, all right? But we're not on the same page here. I'm talking about what started it. Six weeks ago."

Nick frowned at him, wishing for just a little bump to make his brain defog. "You lost me."

Now Grissom was looking alarmed again. "You filed a report," he said in a hollow voice. "Don't you remember?"

"Report?"

"Yeah. Brass -- Well, let's just say we found out, too. I'm sorry; I had no idea, Nick. I'm so sorry."

Gazing at Grissom's pinched expression made him feel dizzy and a little sick. "What in God's name are you talking about?" But the words echoed weirdly in his own ears. Didn't he know? Didn't this sound at all familiar? Even the slightest, teeniest bit -- known?

"The police re --"

"No." Nick shook his head firmly. "No, that's not it."

"What do you mean, that's not it? Nick, it's --"

The dizziness was worse, and pretty damned awful when he stood up suddenly. "That didn't happen," he announced as flatly as he could. "No."

"If it didn't happen, why do you know what I'm talking about?"

"Nothing -- happened." Nick wiped sweat off his upper lip and walked over to the kitchen door. The urge to drink something, snort something, SHOOT something made his knees weak. "I gotta go," he heard himself say in a wandering voice. "I gotta be someplace." He stopped short at the refrigerator, the tidy enameled door splintering into dark, lurid fragments. He shook his head hard.

"Nicky." Familiar voice -- who? Gil. Grissom. Oh, he was still there. "Look at me. You're scaring me."

Wasn't Grissom's voice at ALL, and Nick spun around with a hoarse cry of alarm. Nope, that was --

"Get out," he rasped, backing away until his butt hit the counter, and sidling right as fast as he could. "Get out, fuck you GET THE FUCK OUT!"

The man grinned, showing gold around one front tooth. "I'm just here to help, Nick," he said in a flat Midwest voice. "I'm not who you think I am. Who do you see when you look at me?"

He blinked and it was Grissom again, no gold teeth, eyes wide and hands up in a weird kind of defensive posture. "Who did it?" he asked softly.

Nick turned around and threw up in the sink.

~~~~~~~~~~

After he washed up in the bathroom, he stared at himself in the mirror. The face he saw was unfamiliar, somehow; the right features, but skewed, his eyes but someone else's, too. Harsh white light picked out glints of silver in his hair.

Hard living, boy. Make you old before your time.

A flash of gold teeth in his mind's eye made his stomach turn. He hit the light switch blindly and wandered back out into the living room.

Grissom looked up from studying his hands. "Feel better?"

Nick regarded him, shrugging. "I guess." He lowered himself into a chair and shook his head. "It's kind of hard to believe."

"That it happened? Or that you blocked it out?"

"Take your pick."

"What do you remember?"

He nibbled a ragged cuticle. "Bits and pieces. I mean, it's all there. I think. I just -- it's like my mind won't go there."

"Post-traumatic stress can do weird things to your mind," Grissom observed mildly. "It's a defensive mechanism."

The urge to take something was still there, but somehow muted at the moment. What he really wanted, more than anything, was sleep. Just to close his eyes and rest, completely. Wake up and be himself again.

Grissom's voice interrupted his tired meandering. "Do you know who did it, Nicky?"

He looked up. "I don't know," he replied after a moment. "Maybe. What difference does it make."

"You have --"

"Look, I don't want to talk about it, all right? Just -- give me time to get with the program. Okay?"

Grissom nodded, looking pinched again. "We can find you someone to talk to. Someone who can help you sort this out."

"Professional someone?" Nick snorted, eyeing his bleeding cuticle with abstract interest. "Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great --"

"It might be purgatory, but isn't that better than hell?"

What the fuck do YOU know about hell, he wanted to snarl, and bit it back at the last second. Wasn't Grissom's fault. Wasn't anyone's, except --

The doorbell rang. He flinched, and so did Grissom. "Did I forget I was having a party tonight, too?" he mumbled, hauling himself out of the chair.

"You don't have to answer it."

Nick smiled briefly. "I know."

The man on the other side of the door noticeably didn't smile. "Jesus Christ, Nicky," McAda blurted. Anyone else, Nick would have said he sounded honestly shaken. "You okay?"

"Fine," Nick returned blandly. "Can I help you with something?"

McAda's expression went grim. "I was about to ask you the same thing."

"I'm okay. Thanks anyway."

"Why didn't you tell me? Christ almighty, kid, why the fuck didn't you say something?"

Nick stared at him. "Shutting the door now. Bye-bye."

McAda's booted foot stopped him. "I got the whole story." The man's jaw muscle was ticking so hard Nick could almost hear it. "Want me to take care of it for you? Because I want to."

"What's the point?"

"You sayin' you don't care? You want 'em to get away with what they did to you? Hell, I think I'll do it anyway."

He wished fervently, bleakly, for the increasingly blurry remembered bliss of a few hours ago. Only a few? Felt like forever. "I don't care," he whispered. "Leave me alone. Please go away, please."

"Yeah, all right, I'll go. But I ain't just leavin' this alone. No fucking way."

"He asked you to go, Mike." Grissom's voice behind him made Nick jump. "Why don't you practice not being an asshole and do it?"

McAda's pale blue eyes flickered over to Grissom and then back to Nick. "He don't know, right?" His jaw tensed more. "You didn't tell him."

The words rang tinnily in his ears. He doesn't know. The truth, Nick-eee. He doesn't know the good part. "I'm closing the door now," Nick said in a monotone.

McAda lifted his chin, and a cold little smile tweaked his lips. "Sure. That's right, Nicky, you just let me take care of things. I'll be in touch." He shot Grissom a dancing, awful look. "Be seein' ya."

With the door closed, the silence was a heavy, living thing. Nick swallowed hard and made his way back to the kitchen, skirting Grissom's glowering form. He took a beer out of the fridge and nearly cried out with the absolute NEED for something one hell of a lot stronger.

"What don't I know, Nick?"

"Doesn't matter. Look, I gotta get my car, all right?" He slugged down a freezing mouthful of beer and faced Grissom squarely. "Gimme a hand?"

Grissom folded his arms and shook his head. "What do you need the car for?" he asked evenly. "Someplace you need to be? Something you have to take care of?"

"What difference does it make?" Nick shot back, and snorted. "Fuck it, I'll call a cab. Don't you gotta make some kind of report?" He scrounged for his wallet and glanced inside. One lonely ten, not enough to get him to Persie's to --

"The report can wait. I'm not going to turn my head while you go score something because McAda reminded you of something you don't want me to know."

"Suit yourself." He tucked his wallet back in his pocket and finished the beer in one icy draught. "I'm outta here."

Grissom made a terrible face and grabbed Nick's arm, just above the elbow. His fingers were painfully tight. "Don't make me stick you back in the hospital, Nicky," he said harshly. "Believe me, from what I hear, outpatient treatment's one hell of a lot nicer than the detox program."

Weirdly, instead of pissing him off, the words just made him feel horribly sad. "I'm not gonna do anything," he muttered in a weak voice that didn't convince himself, much less Grissom. "I just want my car back."

"I'll send somebody to get it," Grissom told him grimly. "But no drugs."

"I can't do this without it!" Nick almost screamed, yanking his arm away and backing up a rapid few steps. His heart pounded so fast he felt lightheaded. Or maybe that was need, he didn't care anymore. "I can't!"

"Yes. You can. You have to."

"No." He shook his head hard, swallowing furious tears. "You're not my DAD, Grissom! You can't tell me what to do!"

Grissom looked pretty emotional himself, face ashy pale. "What else is it you can't face? What does McAda know about? Tell me, damn it!"

Nick shook his head again, slower this time. Still backing away, until there wasn't anyplace to go but through the wall. "I can't," he whispered. "You don't want to know, please, PLEASE believe me, you don't WANT TO KNOW."

"Jesus, Nicky," Grissom breathed. He paused for a moment, his eyes dark with emotion. "What's McAda going to do? You have to tell me, so I can stop --"

"He'll kill them."

"Them." If Grissom had been pale before, he was pretty much ghostly now. "Them? There -- was more than one?"

His cheeks were cold, and he wiped away wetness he hadn't known was there. "All right? Is that enough for you?"

"But McAda -- knows them."

Nick closed his eyes, reaching out blindly for the edge of the entertainment center, holding himself up. "Doesn't matter. Nothing matters, man."

"Who were they? Please tell me, Nick. God, please."

"You really wanna know?" Nick grinned, glaring at him. "You REALLY want to know?"

Silently, Grissom nodded.

"They were COPS, okay? PoLICEmen!" He almost giggled, from pure startled relief. "There. Happy now?"

Maybe it was relief that made his knees buckle, too. Didn't much matter. He sat down hard, right where he was, and because Grissom's expression was too fucking much to BEAR he put his hands over his face.

Chapter Ten

Some circumstantial evidence is very strong, as when you find a trout in the milk.

(Henry David Thoreau)

Over the years he'd wondered occasionally about his own childhood. How it seemed to be filled with blank spaces, months and sometimes years of which he could recall very little, if anything.

Not long after he'd made the move to Vegas, he'd briefly gone out with a psychiatrist working for the PD. "Pretty standard," Alex had replied, after Gil asked about the holes in his memory. "Memories are funny things. I wouldn't worry about it."

And he hadn't, really, but a few things had always stuck with him. His mother's deafness, and the chilly response from the rest of their family. The isolation of his adolescence. And he remembered always being curious about death. Why it happened, the cause, the circumstances. Such a mystery, death, for such an inevitable thing.

His earliest recollection of it was the kid down the street. The Harkins, four doors down, the kind of noisy, rambunctious, seemingly dazzlingly happy family he'd yearned for with a kind of dizzy fervor that was still with him in some form as an adult. Tommy was the middle child, nowhere near Gil's age at the time, and the kind of kid that made Gil feel geeky, clumsy, too smart and not nearly cool or interesting enough to ever warrant such a neat friend. Tommy was good-looking and popular and everything Gil never was, and tried desperately hard to believe he never wanted to be.

Tommy Harkin had a dog, Scout. A black Lab, as gleefully joyous as his owner. When Tommy was twelve, Scout had been hit by a car, right on their street. It had been Tommy's grief that struck Gil, that made him wonder about why things like the way death happened, why it happened. Why did it have to hurt so much?

Gil had been seven when Scout died his painful death on the melting August hotpatch of their street. Never knew what really happened to the dog, but curiosity had him looking after that. Enough that he started noticing other animals, on the beach, the roads around their house. And finally he'd started bringing those pathetic little bodies home with him, to try to see what had happened. In retrospect it sounded more than a little ghoulish, but he remembered only feeling deeply curious, almost passionately concerned over the cause of those many, tiny deaths.

But the thing that had stayed with him -- the image he'd retained over all the forty-odd years since Tommy's dog died -- was the expression on Tommy's face as he ran out of the house screaming. That look, not just of grief or sadness, but of utter shock. This can't be happening, Tommy's expression shouted. This isn't SUPPOSED to happen, not to ME, this happens to other people. Never to ME.

Sitting on Nick's floor now, he felt a terrible stab of memory, old empathy. Nick's face was a blazingly clear photograph of anguish, the same disbelief Gil remembered from too many years ago. But this wasn't Tommy, this wasn't a glamorous stranger Gil had wished he'd been friends with. This was a real friend, a colleague. And nothing he'd felt at seven could match what he felt now, at forty-eight.

"I'm so sorry, Nick." The words felt useless, pallid syllables that didn't say anything, that could never match the depth of the feeling. And yet what else could he say? "My God, I'm so so sorry."

He watched Nick wipe his eyes, took in how old Nick suddenly looked. Tired, shocked, but over it all, so terribly sad. For each tear he wiped away, more were there, a slow stream that never varied. "I don't know what to do now," Nick said in a warbling voice. He shook his head, face so contorted with bewildered grief Gil felt as if his own heart were being shredded apart. "Just keeps happening, over and -- over again. I try -- to do the right th-thing, you know, and it never --" His voice went away, and he put his hands over his eyes again.

Because words simply wouldn't work, because they didn't do what he needed them to do, Gil slid over to sit next to Nick and did the only thing that might come close.

He hadn't forgotten Nick's terrible reactions to being touched lately, but somehow it felt as if that was done. And Nick's response was a kind of bleak affirmation: he leaned into Gil's cradling arm, clasping at Gil's shirt, and simply sobbed.

It gave him time to think, sitting there with no words to say, no platitudes that would do any good whatsoever. Time to think about who had done this, and why, and how. Things like what he would do when he found out. Some of those thoughts actually made the terrible sad ache in his throat loosen a tiny bit. Rage had this going for it: while it held the reins you didn't think about consequences, or anything else. There was only vengeance.

At some point he felt Nick stir. This close Nick looked even worse; nose running, face blotchy red from weeping. No, Nick might be easy on the eyes under normal circumstances, but right now he looked pretty damn crummy. Not that it mattered.

Gil fished a tissue out of his hip pocket. "It's clean, I promise," he muttered, holding it out.

Nick's head was heavy on his shoulder. "Wow," he croaked, and wiped his nose.

"Relax. Just let it go, Nicky."

"Pretty much just did," Nick said in a foggy voice, coughing a little laugh that faded almost immediately. "Head aches."

Gil shifted and tucked him a little more firmly against him. "Of course it does." Nick didn't say anything, and there wasn't any more crying. And finally Gil whispered, "Tell me?"

Nick cleared his throat rustily. "Don't know if I can."

"Try. Please?"

"I was coming home. It was -- late, two? The weekend. I had a d-date."

Gil nodded. "Good?"

He felt Nick rumble a tiny laugh against him. "Not too good, no. Don't think she was waiting by the phone the next day. Good thing."

"What happened then?"

Nick went very still. "I don't remember it all," he said in a thin stretched voice.

After a moment Gil replied, "What do you remember?"

"I think -- they planned it. They knew -- my, schedule, whatever. It's like they were waiting."

A thin sliver of new icy rage lanced through Gil's chest. It took a moment to make his voice steady. "Did you know them?"

"One of them. I thought --" Nick's voice wavered, but after a moment he kept going. "I stopped at the store, the one that stays open late. I don't remember what I was gonna get. Coffee, maybe. This cop comes in and I just thought he was gonna shoot the shit, you know?" This laugh was horribly bitter. "Talking to me about a case he said he was working on. I was like, whatever, talking. And we're out in the parking lot and he just -" He gulped a fast breath, words spilling out faster. "Shoves me, like into the back seat. There's these other guys, two I guess, but I can't see if I know them, it's too fucking dark. One of them has his hand over my mouth, I don't --"

He sat up sharply, startling Gil. "I can't do this," Nick said very clearly. His eyes had an odd shiny look that Gil didn't like at all.

"You don't have to --"

"I can smell it." Nick swallowed, pushing himself away. The starey look was still there. "Something in the AIR, man, made me feel sick and so fucking sleepy."

"Chloroform?"

"And they were touching me, aw fuck, I can't do this." Nick rolled away from him and lurched to his feet. "This isn't helping. This isn't fucking DOING anything."

Climbing to his feet, Gil said, "I'm sorry it isn't helping. What do you want me to do, Nick? Can I do something? Anything?"

Nick wrapped his arms around himself and gave him a terrible grin. "Sure. Only you won't."

"I'll do anything I *can* do," Gil replied carefully.

"Okay." Nick's eyes shimmered with tears. "I don't know where they took me," he blurted hoarsely. "It was d-dark, and they were taking my fuh-fucking CLOTHES off." He wiped his face with short, angry gestures, but more tears replaced the old. "And all I'm thinking, man, is this can't be HAPPENING. It's not real."

"Oh, Jesus, Nicky," Gil murmured, swallowing past a lump in his throat the size of California. "God have mercy."

"I kept thinking, if I had my c-cell phone I could call Gr-Grissom." He barked an odd, high laugh, completely at odds with his tear-streaked face. "And you'd come and g-get me and everything would be okay." His voice broke on the last word, and Gil barely caught him when he sagged to his knees.

This time, though, there really wasn't any comfort he could offer. Only sit there and hold his aching head while Nick curled up on the floor and cried, the way Tommy cried that day when Scout died his painful death. That same wracking, un-selfconscious grief that had the neighbors standing mutely on their neat lawns, even the littlest kids caught by the brief specter of utter loss.

~~~~~~~~~~~

He lost track of time after that, so it came as a shock when he finally looked at his watch. Jesus, only two in the afternoon. Felt like days had passed, years spent trying to ease Nick's uneaseable pain.

He dialed the phone by touch, and hunted for the coffee while he waited for Catherine to pick up.

"Gil?"

"Hey." Gil took down the coffee can and wearily noted it was decaf. Figured.

"It's about damn time! How's Nick?"

"Sleeping. At least I hope." He spooned coffee into the filter.

"Did he say anything?"

"I got the gist of the story, yeah. He told me --" His throat clamped down on whatever words he had almost said, and after a moment he continued in a strangled voice, "Enough."

He heard Catherine's sigh. "Did he give you any names? Anyone we can investigate?"

Water gurgled as he filled the coffepot. "Nothing we can use. He's very -- emotional right now," he added with difficulty. Way to downplay the situation, Griss. "It's going to take a while."

"Is there anything I can do, Gil?" Catherine's voice rang with frustration. "Let me -- do something?"

"If I can think of anything, believe me, you're the first one I'll call. I just -- I don't even think I'm helping. Not really."

"God, poor Nick."

"I call you later. Let me know if anything comes up on your end, all right?"

"Of course."

"Go home, Cath. Go be someplace better."

Her voice was a little choked as she replied, "Yeah. I'll do that."

A few minutes later, cup of decaf but at least very hot coffee in hand, he went back to check on Nick. Sleeping, but not well. Eyelids flickering with restless dreams, even his hands knotted in the sheet.

Gil set the coffee cup on the nightstand and knelt by the bed. "It's okay, Nicky," he whispered thickly, reaching out to touch one of Nick's white-knuckled hands. "Everything's going to be okay. Just sleep, honey. Don't dream."

Nick made a muffled sound and turned, curling into himself. But Gil kept his hand, holding it between his own and watching until the frown faded from Nick's face, until all there was to see was the utter laxness of real sleep.

He was still sitting there, half-dozing himself and vaguely wondering what this was doing to his back, when he heard his cell phone beep from the living room. His spine popped angrily when he stood up, and he was still rubbing the small of his back when he found the phone.

"Hey, it's me."

Gil blinked. "That was quick."

Catherine snorted. "Yeah, well, we're just having ourselves a banner day here. Made it to my car and Brass hauled me back in. Think you're gonna want to be in on this one, too, Gil."

"What is it?"

"Jim hasn't told me yet, but the way his face looked, it's bad. I think he's saving his speech for you, though."

Gil cast a doubtful look in the direction of the bedroom. "Okay. I'll be there soon, but Catherine, I'm not there for long, all right? Day shift can handle it, whatever it is."

"That's what I said, but -- Look, I don't know, just get here, all right?"

He ducked in for a fast check -- Nick was still sleeping, so much the better -- and headed for the lab.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You called me in here for a simple drive-by?"

Brass stood stolidly under Gil's slack-jawed stare. "Bear with me."

"Can't Ecklie's team handle this? Christ, Jim, don't you --"

"In case you hadn't noticed, this isn't my shift, either," Brass shot back. "And yeah, I called you in, but ain't nothing simple about it. Pretty goddamn personal."

Gil exchanged a fast glance with Catherine, who was looking decidedly worn around the edges herself. "And?" Gil asked bluntly.

"The victim of your simple drive-by was a cop."

Gil opened his mouth and Brass charged right on. "Sam Mendoza, uniformed patrolman, stopped for a goddamn coffee and got blown away. So yeah, we want everybody we got on this, and don't make me outline the eighty-two thousand reasons why."

"Gang-related?"

"Can't say yet. No witnesses, but we got one guy who says he heard the shot and came out to have a look. He found Sa -- Mendoza on the ground, but no shooter."

Gil nodded. "Friend of yours."

"Knew him, yeah." Brass looked only slightly mollified. "This was a hit, Gil," he added in a lower voice. "Ecklie's already got his team out there and they haven't found diddly. Clean, fast, and professional. I don't --" His cell phone rang, and he muttered a fast "fuck" before answering. Whatever he heard took the high color completely out of his cheeks.

"Jim?" Gil leaned forward, frowning.

The expression on Brass's face was too familiar. With a sinking premonition Gil watched him draw a deep breath. "Make that two dead cops," Brass said slowly. "Christ on a goddamn crutch."

"We're going," Gil replied, lifting his chin at Catherine. "Tell me. Cath, call Warrick and Sara?"

"Got it."

In the hallway Brass's voice sounded a little quenched, his normal bluff enthusiasm entirely missing. "Scott Pendergrast. He was an asshole, if you want the truth, but nobody --" He cleared his throat loudly. "Gunned down at the goddamn supermarket. Parking lot."

"There'll be witnesses. That much we got."

At the doorway he looked at Brass's gray face and touched his shoulder lightly. "I'm sorry, Jim. We'll find them."

"Yeah, well, promise me you'll give me ten minutes alone in a locked room with them when you do." Brass smiled coldly. "That's all I ask."

"I'll do my best."

He was unlocking the Tahoe when someone pulled up next to him. Looking up, Gil registered the calm face with faint surprise.

"Hey there," Mike McAda called. His teeth flashed in a grin. "Workin' you hard, there, Grissom."

"You're blocking my car," Gil said in a tight voice. "Mind moving?"

McAda leaned back in the seat. "Hell of a thing, today. Couldn't happen to a nicer couple of guys, don't you think?"

Gil narrowed his gaze. "I take it you heard."

"Oh yeah. I heard, all right." McAda glanced at Catherine, hurrying out to the passenger side of Gil's truck. "Gimme a second," and he crooked his finger at Gil, beckoning.

"I don't have time for this," Gil bit off, taking a few stiff-legged steps closer. "What do you want, Mike?"

"So Nicky's doing all right?"

"Yeah. He's doing all right, as well as can be expected. Look, you --"

"He'll be better by now. Told him all about it."

"Told him what?"

McAda shrugged and smiled affably. "Just that his little -- problem -- just got littler. Or maybe I oughta say, fewer. By two."

The air went out of Gil's lungs in a shocked whoosh. "What?" he whispered, when he'd gotten some oxygen back. "What the hell are you talking about?"

McAda dropped him a sly, calm wink. "Just takin' care of business, that's all. Gotta look out for my man Nick."

He put the car in gear and Gil leaned on the door. "You can't be --"

"Sorry to be quick, but I got a little more to do before I rest." McAda's eyes shone coldly blue in the sunlight. "You give my best to Nicky, all right?"

His knees -- his entire skeleton -- felt as if they were melting. Shock kept him staring after McAda's car, until Catherine bobbed into view, waving a hand.

"Gil? Hey, earth to Grissom."

He blinked at her. "Wha."

"What is it? You look like you saw a ghost."

Oh Christ. Oh Jesus, Mary and good old Joseph.

"I have to take care of something," he managed, shaking his head fast. "Jesus. Can you go without me? I --"

<Nick, you better find NICK, he KNOWS>

"--have to go. Do. Something."

Catherine dogged his heels. Her hand on his arm felt cool, and meaningless. "God, Gil, tell me, what --"

"Nothing, just go." He slammed the door and started the Tahoe.

Traffic was shitty this time of day. He'd never make it on the interstate. The smaller roads, then, THINK, Grissom, what's the fastest way? He honked his way through intersections, ignored the two different drivers who shouted silently and gave him eloquent gestures.

He KNOWS. He knows what McAda did.

It took too long, aching centuries of shock before he saw Nick's condo complex. No car, oh God -- wait, no, Nick's car was at Persie's, wasn't it? Gil brought the truck to a shuddering stop and reeled out the door. Nick's front door, closed, but that was all right. Until no one answered, and kept not answering, and at some point while knocking so hard his knuckles wailed with pain, he knew.

Nick was gone.

Chapter Eleven

Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance.

(William Shakespeare)

"You're bad juju, man, you know that?"

Nick gritted his teeth and clenched the phone tighter between his jaw and shoulder. "Yeah, I know, and I'm sorry." He swerved around a too-slow car, passing on the right, what has the world come to, Nicky boy. "I'm not asking for a place to crash, I just want the stuff, all right? And I'm outta your hair. Look, I'll pay whatever you want, okay?"

"I'm not a dealer," Brandon retorted in a ridiculously prim voice. "I resent the implication."

"Oh, for Christ's sake, man. Can we just --"

"Dunno what I got right now."

"Doesn't matter."

Brandon huffed a little laugh. "I'm at Kate's, all right?"

"Who's Kate?"

"You mean, what. It's a diner, a block off Inwood. You remember, we --"

"Yeah, that place we went to that night." Nick dodged another too-slow car and nodded. "On my way."

Funny how everything had suddenly gotten so simple. One little phone call, and he knew exactly what he had to do. Very simple order of business: get the car, which involved a cab ride to Persimmon's -- he hadn't checked to see if she was home, since he didn't particularly care -- drive car to Brandon; get something nice from Brandon; get immensely loaded as fast as humanly possible. He had the car, and he'd found Brandon; now for the last two steps. Then bing, baby, FUCK this shit, it was all gonna end in tears, but by god he was gonna face that with some chemical assistance.

He found Brandon in the diner with some friends that looked vaguely familiar. They didn't matter, either. In a booth in the back he sat down and faced Brandon's quizzical expression with very little patience.

"You get fired?"

Nick snorted. "What difference does it make?"

Brandon fidgeted and replied, "Man, I didn't mean to like, nark on you, but --"

"Don't worry about it."

"You want some coffee or something? You look kinda bad."

"Coffee? Goddamn it --"

"All right, all right. Keep your shirt on, man."

And as annoying as he could sometimes be, Brandon did, in fact, have what Nick was after. But when Nick was getting up to leave, Brandon gave him a surprisingly astute frown. "Find somebody else next time, all right?" he said softly.

Nick shrugged. "Why?"

"Because you look like somebody whose ship is going down, Nicky. I ain't going down with you. Fun's one thing, all right?"

"What, I'm not fun anymore?"

Brandon shook his head. "No. No, man, you're no fun at all."

"Fuck you."

"Suit yourself."

He did a couple of bumps in the car, and everything was fine.

~~~~~~~~~~

Things were still fine when he pulled up and saw Grissom standing there with a phone in his hand. Even the thunderous look on Griss's face didn't much sway him. So why was he here, anyway? Hadn't they already done the heart-to-heart thing, whatever?

"Hey," Nick said, grinning as he got out of his car.

Grissom's expression went stony. "So I'm guessing leaving you alone wasn't such a good idea."

"What? No, man, everything's cool. Just had to go get my car." He bounced a little on the balls of his feet, jingling the keys in one hand. "Wanna come in? Have a beer?"

Grissom kept right on staring at him, and nodded.

Inside he grabbed a couple of bottles from the fridge, and handed one to Grissom before he got kind of stuck on which CD to put on. Time for something fast, not sure what. Too many choices.

"Nick, talk to me."

He cast a glance over his shoulder. "Hang on a sec. Stevie Ray Vaughn? You think? Yeah." He grinned again and put the CD in.

From the look on Grissom's face when Nick finally turned around, though, evidently blues wasn't Griss's thing. "Where'd you go?" Grissom asked tautly. "From your eyes, though, I guess I don't have to ask, do I?"

A flicker of anger made the easy good humor fade. "Like I said, to get my car." Nick faced him squarely, narrowing his eyes. "The rest is none of your business."

"McAda came by?"

He blinked. "No. No, he didn't come by, not after you saw him." He took a swig of his beer and veered around Grissom to head back to the kitchen.

A hand caught his arm, stopping him cold. "Then he called," Grissom continued quietly. "He told you."

Standing very still, Nick took a deliberate sip from his bottle and nodded. "Yeah. He told me. So?"

"So -- Aren't you going to do something about it? My god, Nick, he's --"

"What? I don't know what he's doing. Do you? Do you know what happened?"

"The gist of it, yeah. He came to the lab and told me!"

Pulling his arm free deliberately, Nick shrugged. "So what, you want me to stop him? His idea. You know the guy, like a fucking freight train."

"If you don't call him off, who will?"

"I don't know! All right?" Nick forced a grin. "Not my problem!"

Something like fury, mixed with something else far more confusing, clouded Grissom's face. "Is that what all this has been, then?" he shot back, taking a step forward. "Hiding from the truth? Hiding from your part in that truth? You just want to forget about it and it'll all just go away, is that it? Well, it won't, Nick! It's not going to just disappear because you want it to, any of it. Not what those men did to you, not what you've done since then! And certainly not what Mike McAda is doing! How many people have to DIE before you accept this and go forward?"

"I didn't CAUSE this!" Nick bit off harshly. His face felt frozen, all the warmth of drugs replaced with cold dread and a kind of anger he couldn't even describe. "You're saying it's all my FAULT? FUCK you!"

Grissom went oddly still. "I'm trying to make you see that it *isn't* your fault, Nick," he said in a much quieter voice. His eyes were dark and utterly unreadable. "And you can't. You won't."

Nick shook his head wildly. "Why are you DOING this? JESUS, why won't you just leave me alone?"

"I'm trying to help you. Help you get past this."

"But WHY? Why now, for God's sake?"

Grissom's intent expression faltered. "Why? Why not now? You need help, Nick, it's --"

"Maybe." Nick gave him a crisp nod and then shrugged. "But man, I don't need it from you." He took in Grissom's startled look, and added, "The horse is out of the barn, Gil. Give it up, man, all right? Don't you get it? I mean, it's too late. I don't give a shit anymore."

"You don't mean that," Grissom said in a low voice.

"Sure I do. Man, all the times I'd have given anything -- ANYTHING -- to get you to act like you gave a shit about me, and you do it NOW?" He coughed a laugh. "Guess I know the secret now, because it isn't nearly getting shot, and it isn't having a goddamn stalker watch me 24/7, and it SURE as hell isn't being accused of murder. It's getting lit, man! Or is it just getting raped, is that it?"

Grissom's face had gone a weird shade of pale. He looked more sick than shocked now. "I did the best I knew to do," he stated hoarsely. Now it was Gil taking backward steps, but it didn't feel nearly as good as it should have, to see it. Not very good at all.

"But you couldn't get involved. Not really." Nick swallowed dryly. "But then all this -- this SHIT happens, and all of a sudden you're there, you know, you're -- around, but it's too late."

"It's NOT too late. What the hell are you saying?" Grissom's white face took on a little color as he frowned.

"I worshiped you, man," Nick said softly. His throat felt so tight he could barely breathe, and yet words somehow kept squeezing out. "I'd have given anything in my entire LIFE to know that you gave a damn. I mean, is this what it takes? Me, this way, to --"

"That's not fair," Grissom interrupted, cheeks painfully flushed now. "How could I know you felt that way? I mean, you didn't --"

"Just like I didn't know. So we're even, all right?"

They stood there in brief silence, and Nick allowed his eyes to lock with Grissom's for a moment before closing them. "Go away, Gil," he whispered between clenched jaws. "Just go away."

For a second he thought he'd actually do it, too. And then there were cool palms on his cheeks, and Gil said, "No," in a fierce low voice. "Goddamn it, Nick, NO."

He couldn't look. If he opened his eyes it would let the tears out, and he was TIRED of tears. And he'd see, and he couldn't afford that. No. No way.

"I couldn't help you, Nick," Gil continued intensely, hands tight on Nick's face. So close he could feel the energy baking off him, the bizarre emotion out of nowhere. "I couldn't help you with Kristy. You didn't NEED help; you were *innocent*. And I knew the evidence would prove that."

"But --"

"Don't put me on a pedestal. Don't. It's not fair to you, and it's not fair to me. I never claimed to have all the answers. But you needed me this time, Nicky, and I'm HERE. I'm not going to just let you go. Do you understand that?"

The terrible pain in those words made him look, and he shrank a little at the blaze in Gil's eyes. "So I wasn't there then," Gil continued more softly, taking his hands away. "But I'm here NOW."

"They don't deserve to die," Nick choked out, shaking his head. "I never wanted them to DIE. I swear to God, I never wanted that."

"Then stop him. Stop him before he does worse than what he's already done."

Nick swallowed hard. "But I'm glad they're dead. I'm so fucking glad."

Gil drew back a little, expressionless. "A part of me is, too," he said softly.

"You know him. All we can -- Nobody'd believe us. He -- he'll have set it up so we can't trace it to him. He's like that."

"I know what he's like. He won't have done it himself."

Nick's eyes filled with sudden tears. "I already covered up for him once. God, he could use that against me. And the drug test, I mean, I owe him, I can't just --"

Gil's hands on his shoulders stopped the flow of words cold. "Let me think," he said shortly. "Come on, sit down."

He let Gil put him on the couch, and was absurdly, stupidly glad when Gil sat down next to him. But Gil didn't say anything else. After a very long moment Nick asked, "What are you thinking?"

The look on Gil's face was kind, and too understanding, and filled with dread. "You already know," he replied softly.

Nick gave a slow nod and felt the last of the artificial energy in his veins trickle away. "Yeah. Guess I do."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He looked for Brass, but didn't find him. Out of the office, someone said, but no clue as to where "out" might be.

And he didn't look around long. Every person he passed in the hallway seemed to be staring covertly at him. Whispers, wide-eyed looks --

they can see it they can TELL

Maybe he was imagining it -- almost certainly he was imagining it, how could they know, really? -- but he couldn't get out of there fast enough. Outside the air was crispy-hot, the wind parched dry enough to mummify. Nick made a face and looked around for his car, and nearly bumped into someone else's car, pulling up in front of him.

"Hey, Nicky. Get in." When Nick didn't move, McAda sighed. "Look, just get in the car, all right? I ain't kidnapping you, just wanna have a little talk, that's all."

Nick froze. "I got nothing to say to you," he blurted unsteadily.

"That's cool, because I'm gonna do most of the talking." McAda's blue eyes glinted in the harsh sunlight. "All you gotta do is listen."

"I can't do that," Nick said, swallowing hard. "I can't listen to you anymore."

McAda snorted. "Think you better."

The inside of McAda's car smelled like old cigarettes and Bay Rum. It wasn't a bad smell, but it underscored the dislocated feeling Nick had, sitting there. McAda put the car in gear and Nick stiffened. "Where are you taking me?"

"For a drive." McAda didn't look at him, pulling the car out into traffic.

"You said you were gonna talk." Nick crossed his arms, fighting down fear and gnawing uncertainty. "So talk."

"I will. But first we go someplace."

"Where?"

"You'll see."

The silence was like a living, breathing THING, pressing at his brain, nibbling at his frayed nerves until his hands shook. He buried them under his arms and sat stiffly in the passenger seat. The occasional glance to his left told him nothing. McAda was perfectly composed, but a twitching muscle in his jaw was all the more informative. So McAda might be having second thoughts? What, he was gonna confess? No fucking way; guys like McAda -- if there were any other guys like McAda in the city, which Nick seriously doubted -- those guys never caved. Rather go down in flames than roll over. Wasn't in their nature.

They drove for twenty minutes, edging into the area of the city Nick most associated with crime, with well-marked crime scenes. Low-rent, low-income, no-prospects decay. In the light of day it seemed like a procession of increasing shabbiness, losing the ominous flavor he remembered from night work.

McAda took a left turn down one street and Nick felt a weird flicker in his chest. "Where are we going?" he asked hollowly.

"Think you already know that," McAda returned in a toneless voice.

"Stop."

"Shut up."

Two more turns and Nick was pretty sure a heart attack was imminent. Didn't know why, didn't fucking CARE. "Let me out, goddamnit."

"In a minute."

They passed a car sitting by the curb, shiny finish belieing the stripped frame. Neon from a bodega across the street flickered garish blue on the clearcoat.

Nick swallowed hot tears. "Don't do this," he whispered forlornly.

For a second it seemed like McAda was just giving in, but when he swung the car down the alley that faint hope disappeared. The car slowed and stopped, dark in the shadows of looming warehouses spattered with graffiti.

"Come on," McAda told him in a quiet voice. "Get out."

"I can't."

"Yeah, you can. You're gonna. Come on."

His knees wavered so much he had to hold onto the car door for support. It smelled rank here: garbage, piss, the more vague scent of neglect and old smoke. Nick felt his stomach lurch.

"Got something to show you." McAda's hand closed hard and inexorable over Nick's wrist. "Won't take long."

The doors on the right row of warehouses were old steel, battered and multiply locked, marked with paint and other things far less prosaic. Stumbling in McAda's wake, Nick put his free hand over his mouth and nose, breathing fast and shallow through his mouth. Even here the blue light was obvious, like police flashers reflecting off puddles and shiny metal.

McAda stopped in front of one door and dropped Nick's arm to fish in his pocket. He came up with keys, holding them as if they had something foul smeared all over them.

"Almost there," he murmured, casting a fast, almost pitying look at Nick before putting one of the keys in the first lock.

The door opened to reveal a vast black nothing, empty warehouse, probably long abandoned. McAda put the keys back in his pocket and made a ridiculous after-you-my-dear-Alphonse gesture.

He stepped inside, wrapping his arms around himself. It was cold in here, startling after the baking heat outside. He couldn't make out anything at first. Too inky-dark inside.

"Over here." McAda loomed at his side, walking forward and then veering to his right.

His feet dragged as if he had on lead shoes. The nausea was bright and focused now, making his mouth water. He trudged a few more feet and stopped, gulping fast lungfuls of musty air.

"You almost got it," came McAda's disembodied voice.

He could see better now, enough to make out the shadowy forms of crates, empty now, and the clean vertical angle of a wall. Beyond the wall he found McAda, standing with arms folded. His face gleamed white in the murk. "Remember this place, Nicky?" he asked softly.

He remembered the smell now. The mustiness, that wasn't all from neglect. The sharp tang, coming and going, like licking copper. Oh yeah. He remembered.

Nick drew a sobbing breath. "Why?" he gasped, leaning against the wall. "Why'd you do this?"

After a moment McAda spoke, but it wasn't the answer Nick had been looking for. "I got the keys off the first guy," he said remotely. "Knew about this place, heard some stories over the years. But I never knew where it was. So he told me." A terrible tinge of satisfaction colored his otherwise distant voice. "It's been going on for years, Nicky. Near as I've been able to find, since 1994 or so."

Nick blinked away tears and squinted at him. "What's been going on?"

"It wasn't just you. Got that? You think you were the only one they did this to?" McAda snorted, a loud sound in the hushed air. "Far from it. They had a system. And they been working that system for a long, long time."

"No," Nick said in a small voice. "It was just --"

"They scoped people out in advance," McAda lumbered on. "Hand-picked. Guys, women, didn't much matter. But they were careful. The ones they picked had reasons not to talk. I think a couple did try to talk, like you did, and they got -- persuaded otherwise. You get it?" He walked over to stand nearby, and even in the dimness Nick could see the fury and sadness in McAda's face. "They operated above the law, Nicky, and they got away with it. They were always gonna get away with it. And I couldn't let 'em. You see that now?"

It was getting hard to see again, but now it was because his eyes were filling with hot, exhausted tears. "So you k-killed them."

"Maybe I do some shit you don't like, and we both know I do. Hell, I do some shit I don't like. But I know wrong when I see it. I can still do that, see, Nick? I can still tell right from wrong. And this was wrong. What they did to you, what they did to all those other people, that was wrong. So I took care of things." His smile was cold and bright, even through the scrim of tears. "Don't ask me to say I'm sorry. Don't ever ask me to say I regret what I done. Because it ain't any more wrong than what they did. And I think it was a lot less."

His stomach felt like a hot ball of poison inside him. He stared at McAda for a second, and then reeled away. He made it about halfway out before he had to stop and throw up.

When he was finished McAda was at his side again. Capable, absolutely unruffled, handing him some battered tissues and saying nothing. Just there, and it shouldn't have been so comforting. But it was.

He beat it outside when he could, squinting in the light and breathing in the tainted air as if it were -- nourishing, somehow.

"So you do what you gotta do, Nicky," McAda said, closing the warehouse door behind him. He looked bad, too, his bluff face grayish. But his eyes were too understanding. "Maybe two wrongs don't equal a right, I don't know. But I'd do it again. In a fucking heartbeat. And not just for you, you got that? If it had just been you, yeah, I'd have been pissed. But you were the last of too many people they did shitty things to, and got away with it."

Nick wiped his face, faintly surprised to see his hands weren't shaking anymore. "I see that," he said softly.

"But remember this, if you don't remember anything else, all right? You were the last. It ain't gonna happen again, not like this. Never again." McAda smiled a little. "So in a way you stopped something that had to be stopped. Even if it didn't happen the way you thought it should."

Nick gazed at him, and then nodded.

Chapter Twelve

I am a kind of paranoiac in reverse. I suspect people of plotting to make me happy.

(J.D. Salinger)

"So you're just going to -- what? Do nothing? Is that what you're saying?"

He watched Nick carefully, but if he was waiting for some kind of defensive reply, he didn't get it. "I don't know," Nick said tonelessly. "What would you do? If it were you instead of me?"

Gil sat back, making a face. "It's not me, Nick, it's --"

"I know. Answer me. What would you be doing right now, knowing what I know?"

Nick's gaze was direct, unflinching. He couldn't lie to that face. Not after everything that had already happened. "I honestly have no idea," Gil replied. "Murder is murder, that much I know. What Detective McAda did was vigilantism, plain and simple. But if his victims had done to me what they did to you...." He trailed off, shaking his head.

"Not just to me," Nick added softly. "They did it to a lot of other people." He leaned back in his chair and sighed. "McAda told me some of what he found. The last guy killed himself six months later."

Gil's eyes widened. "You're not talking about --"

"Ray Bramlett. He ate his gun, Gil, and don't try to tell me it was because of something else. Nobody got why he did it, at the time. Now you know."

"Ray was a good man," Gil said faintly, his chest aching with sudden terrible shock. "My god."

Nick was silent for a long moment, enough that Gil finally looked closely at him. Finally he said, "I can't undo what happened to me, either, man. Nobody can. Any more than I can bring those two cops back to life. Even if I wanted to." The last was said with a grim look he didn't have to explain. "If I thought -- If I really believed that Mike McAda acted wrongly, then I'd speak up," he continued with difficulty. "But the truth is, I don't. I think they deserved what they got. Hell, I think they got off easy." He met Gil's eyes, and Gil almost recoiled at the dreadful sadness he saw. "Maybe that makes me an accomplice or something. Guess it does. I just don't care."

Gil nodded slowly. "You don't have to make up your mind now, Nick. Think on it. You know you can talk to me anytime, right?"

Nick smiled briefly. "Yeah. Thanks."

"None of it was your fault. You know that?"

The tiny smile vanished, leaving only grief in its wake. "I know," Nick replied pallidly. "Believe me, I know."

"Okay. I have to go up to the lab. You're not going to -- you know. Are you?"

"What, you mean score?" Nick shrugged. "Want me to lie and say I don't want to?"

Gil shook his head. "I just wish you wouldn't. That's all."

Nick's eyes were starry with tears, but he just shook his head. "Don't worry about it. I'm gonna stick around here tonight." He made a show of glancing around his newly neatened apartment, while surreptitiously swiping at his cheek. "Just hang out for a while. I might have a beer," he added, another weak smile appearing and disappearing. "But that's probably it."

"Okay. Call me if you need anything. Anything at all."

"Will do."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He waited for the other shoe to drop. It had to; it couldn't be that easy.

But Nick didn't call. It got later, and there was work to be done, crime scenes that seemed all too personal suddenly. Who were these people? What did this violence, this catastrophic unexpectedness, do to their lives? He hadn't spent a lot of time wondering lately, maybe not for a long time outside the rigid confines of scientific investigation, and now he had to wonder about that.

You had to have the distance to do your job. You couldn't walk in and feel everything the way the victims and their families did, not and stay sane. So you wore armor. You hid behind facts, statistics, tests and microscopes and jargon, and it protected you. And you needed that protection. That little dose of unreality.

But statistics weren't people. Now Gil found himself studying family members, watching their emotions play out on their faces, in their words and gestures. And he had to consider that maybe a whiff of understanding was necessary.

He was sitting at his desk back at the lab, half-reading reports and half-staring into space, when Jim Brass appeared in the doorway.

"Hey. Got a minute?"

Gil put down the papers thankfully. "Sure. What's up?"

Brass had an odd look on his face, one that made Gil's stomach suddenly clench hard. "Ecklie's team got nothing on our shooters. The cops," he added with a frown when Gil kept right on looking at him.

"Ah. Yeah. I saw that."

Pulling up a chair, Brass sat down with a heavy sigh. "Don't guess your folks found anything, huh."

"No evidence so far," Gil replied carefully. "You've seen the ballistics reports. They were very professional hits. You know I'll let you know when we find something solid."

Brass nodded slowly. "I've been thinking."

Gil leaned back. "Tell me."

"There are stories going around. Nasty ones." Brass sighed again. "I don't know if I believe 'em. Hell, I don't know what I believe anymore."

"What kinds of stories?"

"I knew Sam Mendoza for years. Worked with him when we were both out of the first precinct, wasn't my partner, but." He studied his fingernails. "I knew he was a loner, never married, that kind of thing. I just figured, hey, to each his own. I don't worry about that kind of thing, don't have the time." He met Gil's eyes squarely. "There's guys that say he got what was coming to him. He was bent, in a really bad way."

Gil drew a slow, measured breath. His hands felt very cold. "I may have heard something along those lines myself," he said quietly.

Brass nodded. "Neither one was real popular. Sammy kept to himself. And Prendergast -- a fucking weasel if you ask me. But they were cops, Gil. Brothers. And now what I'm hearing --" He looked away again, brow furrowed. "I don't think you're gonna find any evidence. That's all I'm saying."

"We may not. There are cases where we never do. We've both seen them, lots more than once."

Looking at Brass's tired, shocked face, Gil felt like blurting it all out, and held his tongue only after concerted effort. "I don't know if I want to know what they did," Brass continued dully. "I don't -- I guess I don't want to believe it, so I'll just do my job, you know. Do the job. But this investigation's dying, and I don't think it'll revive. I think there's people letting it die. Because somebody took care of something that maybe shoulda been taken care of a long time ago. You know something?"

"What?"

"That's what I hate. Not that those two cops were shot. I hate not knowing if it was the wrong thing to do, or the right thing." His smile was bitter now. "God damn, it makes me feel old."

Gil nodded. "Me, too," he agreed softly.

Brass sat up and put a hand on Gil's desk. "So. You got anything for me that's not bullshit?"

Gil smiled faintly and held out a printout. "DNA results work for you?"

"That's my kind of evidence."

At the door Brass paused, and turned back around. "What if it's true?" he asked bluntly. "Those stories?"

Gil regarded him steadily. "I can't answer that, Jim."

"Or won't?" Brass nodded once, crisply. "Don't answer that one, either. But you weren't going to, anyway. Were you?"

Gil watched him until he closed the door. And then leaned back and sighed explosively.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He got breakfast and rang Nick's doorbell around ten the next morning. It took a long time for Nick to answer, and when he did, Gil almost recoiled at how bad he looked.

"Rough night?" Gil asked after Nick let him in.

He watched Nick rub swollen eyes. "Couldn't sleep," he answered briefly, in a hoarse, tired voice. "What's that?" He lifted his chin at the paper sack Gil held.

"Burritos. Hungry?"

"I could eat."

They sat at Nick's spotless table, eating in concentrated silence. When the food was gone Gil smiled. "Better?"

"Not too bad."

In the living room they sat sipping hot, strong coffee, and Gil said, "Anything you want to talk about?"

Nick put his cup down and drew his knees up. "It's not easy," he said softly, gazing at the window.

"You knew it wouldn't be."

"Doesn't help."

Gil set his own coffee cup on the table and leaned forward. "I think you need some help, Nicky."

Nick's eyes filled with tears, still staring raptly at the bright sunshine outside. "Yeah," he said thickly. "Maybe I do."

Moved by an impulse he didn't even try to understand, Gil got up and came over to the sofa, sitting next to Nick. Under his careful hand Nick's shoulder was rigid with tension. "I'm not asking you to do it all at once," Gil murmured. His throat was aching badly. "You're going the right direction. There's no timetable."

"I know." Nick sobbed once and scrubbed his eyes fiercely. It didn't help much; the tears were pretty steady now. "I just feel so fucked up. I don't know how to do this."

It felt right that Nick leaned against him, that some of that strung-out energy seemed to be easing. Gil put an arm around Nick's shoulders and swallowed hard. "I'll help you, Nick," he told him softly. "We'll all help you."

Nick nodded against his shoulder. "What happens now?"

"That's up to you. But I know a few people. Maybe you can check in someplace, be around people while you start out." He tightened his arm when Nick shifted a little. "It's only temporary. You'll find your way again. But maybe you have to let people help you right now. Just give you a nudge in the right direction."

Nick snorted adenoidally, but it didn't sound as curt as it had been, not so long ago. "Swift kick, more like."

Gil smiled. "Maybe. You're stronger than you think, though. You'll get through this."

Nick was silent a long moment, and when he spoke his voice was clogged with tears. "Thank you. I don't think I've said that, but I mean it."

"It's been an honor."

Nick pulled away after a while, wiping his blotchy face and gulping more coffee. Finally he cleared his throat hard and looked over at Gil. "So where do we start?"

"I'll call, get things set up." He smiled gently. "You should pack a few things. Feel up to it?"

Nick wasn't smiling, but the calmer set of his features gave Gil a flare of new hope. "Yeah," Nick said quietly. "I'm up to it." He started to get up, and Gil put a hand on his arm.

"When things get rough, Nicky. You know you can call me. I'm right here."

The smile on Nick's face was slow, and sweet, and as brilliant as the Nevada sunlight streaming through the blinds. "Yeah," he replied. "Yeah, you are."

He listened to Nick rustling around, the remote sounds of packing, and settled back on the sofa for a moment. And found that he was smiling, too.

~~~~~~~

For ESA.