IRREVERSIBLE

DISCLAIMER: CSI and Nick Stokes are the products of CBS and its affiliates. I
do not own them, but I thank them dearly for their use.

OC/AU Season: Beyond Season 8

RATING: M FOR ADULT SITUATIONS AND EXTREME VIOLENCE

A/N: This subject has been covered in plenty of slash stories, but I'm
taking it (which will become obvious as you read on) and putting a different
spin on it. One that will show the trauma that comes with such an ordeal and
the feelings that lead towards revenge.

The problem with revenge, as Nick will find out, is that it is
irreversible.

CHAPTER ONE

"If I can catch him once upon the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I
bear him."
Author: William Shakespeare
Source: The Merchant of Venice (Shylock at I, ii)

Definition of Irreversible: Incapable of being reversed; "irreversible
momentum towards revolution"
Online Dictionary

It was your typical, dank rural bar, complete with shady characters, cheap
beer and a jukebox with Johnny Cash singing 'God's Gonna Cut You Down'. Blonde and brunette waitresses wearing short shorts and white crop tops stood aside nervously, their knee-high sports socks adorned knees, twirling their perfectly coiffed hair nervously, looking at each other nervously, holding their trays to their chests.

And it came complete with a smaller than usual crowd of shady characters, who all vacated their various homes and trailers to congregate the tavern, watch ESPN or listen to the same old country tunes again.

What was not typical was the scene that was taking place with the dark-haired, dark-eyed outsider from Vegas, slamming the head of its newest resident into the table, blood flying everywhere along with pieces of compressed wood.

The burly bartender with blue eyes, bald head, tattoo of a naked woman on his left bicep and goatee had already dialled 911, but could do nothing about the scene as far as the crowd was concerned. The Vegas outsider was in the right and the guy getting his brains bashed in was in the wrong. They knew that the guy was a bad apple the day he had moved into their town, but until the recent turn of events, nothing could be done about it.

While most of the patrons stood by and did nothing, others cheered for the guy claiming to be Nick Stokes, CSI from Vegas. The bashed up man was John McVeigh, recent parolee who had moved into the trailer park and now connected to the disappearance of a little girl.

The connection between Stokes and McVeigh was unknown, but it had to be something pretty nasty for the dark-haired man, with the southern accent and square chin, whose face was intense as a panther readying for the kill. His brown eyes blazed with such a fury that the patrons dared not to involve themselves, as the risk of being on the receiving end would bring them wrath.

Nevertheless, the bartender didn't want to be held liable in case someone decided to sue his ass for personal damages, so he reluctantly made the call to the police and hoped things would die down before then.

THWACK!

THWACK!

"Where is she!?" He roared in a guttural voice.

With the help of his friend, Las Vegas CSI, Nick yanked the dirty bastard up, by his hair, almost to his level. Blood poured down his face from the wounds he had been inflicted when the CSI had slammed him into the compressed wood table, which was cracked from the impact of the assault. The bastard was twice Nick's size and girth, his long hair, that formed from a hideous bald spot, hung limply around his shoulders, his teeth were yellowed with cigarette smoke.

But he smiled through the blood from loosened teeth, turned his head towards Nick and simply spit it into his assailant's face.

That was when any rational from Nick just vanished for good and, with the help of his clean-cut soldier friend, who twisted the arms of the jerk around his back, he tore into the man with punches, kicks, head butts, every type of martial arts and football training balled into one, making the bar patrons wonder if the man on the receiving end was going to survive the wiry Texan's unique form of fighting.

And Nick's Glock rested in its holster, the weight teasing the enraged man.

Although the thought raced through his mind, almost screamed at him to do it, to pull it out, pull the trigger and blow his brains, the trajectory of which Catherine Willows, his supervisor at the crime lab, had never seen and would be impressed and he could almost hear her husky voice speaking of the décor blood splatter lined against the wall. But that last vestige of sanity screamed even louder that as much as McVeigh deserved it, he was not worth it.

McVeigh's face was bloodied beyond recognition: it poured from his nose and from his mouth. Nick stood in his boxer stance, fists bloodied, breathing heavily and then decided to take one good kick at the man's genitals for good measure, something he'd wanted to do since it had happened.

The man cried out in agony as Nick leaned into him and whispered with an evil smile and a vengeful gleam in his eyes, "How's that for you, Cowboy?"

Only McVeigh knew the meaning of that.

The Texan's eyes were black, nostrils flared, his square chin clenched as he understood, for the first time in his life, what drove people to commit murder. When rage is in full mode, the line that most of the universe does not cross out of sheer respect for humanity becomes invisible.

At this point, Nick Stokes was ready; not just ready to cross the line, but
eradicate it!

The door clanged and footsteps filled the room as the CSI grabbed the guy by the back of his collar and was about to resume with the head bashing. McVeigh was being held up by Nick's new friend, who was exhausted, but held firm.

"NICK!" A familiar voice commanded.

Nick whipped around, breathing heavily. Sweat drenched his long sleeved grey shirt and ran like Niagara Falls down his face, making his skin gleam in the light, and his eyes widened in shock and horror.

The bar became deadly silent, save for Johnny's Cash singing about God cutting you down. McVeigh was still being held by the Texan's friend's arms, the man looking alarmed at the sight of the visitors.

Nick's Lab supervisors, Gil Grissom and Catherine Willows, stood there along with the local sheriff and other local officers who rushed over and grabbed McVeigh away from the man holding him. Out from behind Catherine and Grissom, his buddy and colleague Warrick Brown walked determinedly over, his sleep-deprived blue eyes coated in red, and grabbed
Nick by the back of his collar and frog-marched him out of the bar as the officers walked over to the beaten man, notifying their local dispatch that an ambulance was needed.

"Let me go, you fucking asshole!" Nick screamed, as he squirmed like a cat held by the scruff, trying to get out of Warrick's vice-like grip, to race back into that damn bar and finish what he had started. Now that the rage had been released, there wasn't anything or anyone that could stop him and fuck whatever consequence came of it. His temples thumped with adrenaline, his lungs heaved and Goddamit, no friend was going to stop him, as Nick tried to lay into Warrick, screaming obscenities.

Undeterred by Nick's squalling cat behaviour, Warrick simply whipped him around and slammed him into his truck, hands scuffed around the collar of the Texan's t-shirt, which looked like it could use a washing machine.

Nick momentarily saw stars from being slammed against the truck, and rather than waiting for them to clear, he grabbed Warrick's hands and began to pull at them as he continued to shout at the taller, black man to release him, eventually attempting to knee him in the gonads.

Warrick held firm as he was taller and stronger then his wiry buddy "No! No! NO! Not like this. This is not how we do things, Nicky!" Warrick's face was in anger and fear for Nick or this goddamn Sweeney Todd of a man that appeared before him.

"In this case, we do!" Nick growled with his nostrils flared. His pupils were dilated; face bloodied from the asshole's broken teeth.

Warrick didn't recognize in this guy, his friend Nick Stokes, the voice of calm and reason in his own times of recklessness. Then again, that Nick was somehow taken from them a long time ago and replaced by a madman.

Catherine walked over, calmly although her nerves too were stretched from recent revelations, "Nick! Yes, in fact this is not your case. This was never your case."

"Oh yeah it is." Nick said.

Catherine could see the toll stress had taken on Nick. Sickness resulting from a horrid event had weakened him and he seemed thinner, gaunt almost. His square chin held a determination beyond words. He was going to finish this whether anyone liked it or not. Everyone, as far as she was concerned, was capable of murder as rage can blur that line between morality and immorality.

The entomologist stood closer to Nick and showed him a legal form that he'd seen in court rooms, and procedures in other cases, never relating to him. He grabbed it and read it.

"It's a request for pseudonym for victims of assault." Catherine explained, without really having to.

A tense pause ensued while Nick stared at the form and then looked at Grissom and
Warrick, suspiciously.

"Do you know why I brought this to you, Nick?" Catherine asked solemnly, looking straight into her subordinate brown eyes.

The Texan scrunched his face up, shaking his head in defiance, "No!"

"We know why you're here Nick." Catherine told him, stepping closer in order to keep the conversation as quiet as possible.

Nick's eyes widened with disbelief mired in confusion. Catherine nodded and looked straight at Nick, unwavering, "We know what happened to you."

The boxer-like stance that beheld the Texan weakened. He pushed Warrick away. "Nothing happened." He snarled at his coworkers, feeling like a cornered dog.

"The evidence clearly shows that it did, Nick." Catherine had her voice lowered to a near whisper, "We found evidence. Nick. We found your clothes, the DNA test you ran..."

"No!" Nick shook his head, his voice thickening.

"We found the cloth..." Catherine said, her hands wringing, her face contorted in pain as she revealed to Nick that they knew his awful truth.

"No!!" The Texan cried out, placing his hands on his ears.

"And the extension cord in the cell of the one of them." Catherine said, trying to level with him.

Folding his arms, Nick bent over slightly, grimacing as if he'd been socked in the solar plexus.

"Nick, man… it's going to be okay!" Warrick said, "Really man! It's okay. It wasn't your fault."

"No, it wasn't Nick." Catherine touched Nick's shoulder, "You were in a no win situation."

Clamping his hands back over his ears, Nick turned and buried himself in Warrick's truck before spinning around. "Just shut the fuck up, both of you! Take that damn form and shove it, Catherine. Get rid of the evidence, get rid of everything, Grissom, do it!"

"I can't Nick, there's evidence that a crime took place." Grissom answered, remaining stoic despite the agony of watching his subordinate crumple with the revelation.

"No, just get rid of it; just make it go away okay? It never happened!"

"Nick, calm down!"

Nick whirled around and started charging for the bar where an EMT was walking in.

"I came here to finish him, now let me do it! I'll get lawyers who will defend me. I know my way around the system, man!" Nick was mad with a rage the likes none of them had seen, ever.

Warrick and Grissom grabbed him on either side imploring for him to stop.

"We need him to find her, Nick!" Catherine told him, her voice cracking as she watched Nick's tough demeanour buckle.

"He's not talking!" Nick pleaded, his voice choking up.

"Doesn't matter, we need him anyhow." Warrick explained.

Nick turned around and started for his Tahoe, as Warrick ran after him. "You aren't going anywhere buddy." He said, standing in front of the car.

"Warrick's right Nick, you're not running away this time."

"I…….I.." Nick simply stood there, "I don't know… what… to do anymore.." He looked at his coworkers feeling shame and embarrassment and humiliation because they knew. They knew his dirty secret and they'd never, ever look at him the same way again. He'd be a pariah in the lab.

Maybe he should have eaten his gun. Even though that that wasn't the answer, it was far better then having his closest friends know of his violation.

Grissom and the Sheriff walked solemnly over to the scene at that moment.

"There's nothing for you to do other then go back to where you're staying and wait!" Grissom told him, "We're going to finish this for you. Okay?"

"No." Nick pleaded, "I'm not leaving until we find her. I promised her mother I would."

"And you've gotten very far on this one Nick. You found the suspect in both crimes now…let us do the rest."

"No!" Nick exclaimed, "Grissom, remember I'm on leave…I don't have to listen to you right now..."

"Yes, Nick, you do. For everyone's sake. If the D.A. catches that this was the same guy who. Who…"

"Don't you fucking say it!!" Nick pointed a finger in Grissom's face, "Don't you ever, ever fucking say it again Grissom...or you'll meet the end of my fist…you understand.."

Grissom backed off feeling for the first time in his life afraid of Nick. Even though he was the Texan's boss, the younger man was twice as strong as him. However, the entomologist also felt nothing but grief for his subordinate because this wasn't him talking; it was the horror and shame of his recent ordeal that brought him to this raging point.

"Hey man!!" Warrick stepped in between, "Calm down Nick. OK, you're my Bro, you understand Nick. You still the same big-chinned Texan that beat me at becoming a Level I by a fluke. Okay, Nick?" implored the tall gangly black man; blue eyes sincere and sympathetic.

Catherine stepped over to him and whispered earnestly, "I know how you feel Nick, believe me more then you can imagine. I know the last thing you want is for us to know."

Calmness seemed to come over Nick and he cleared his throat and said, "I still want to help Grissom."

"No, Nick you can't." Grissom firmly told him.

"But I want to." He hated the whine in his voice.

"I'm afraid, Mr. Stokes, that you have no choice in this matter." A voice spoke.

They all turned to the Town's Sheriff who looked at them solemnly as he approached them with two officers. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to take Mr. Stokes as well as Mr. Sargent
into custody."

Warrick and Catherine groaned as Grissom stepped towards him looking at the man in disbelief. "You gotta be kidding me!" Grissom exclaimed.

"No, I'm not. Mr. McVeigh is requesting to lay charges."

Grissom and Warrick looked back at Nick who seemed to be more accepting of those things. He rolled his tongue around his mouth, placed his hands on his head, and nodded to the Sheriff that he was going quietly with no fuss. The Sheriff motioned for the officer to handcuff Nick, who remained stony faced and avoided the shocked stares of his colleagues.

Warrick looked at Grissom, "Gris..do something."

"I can't. Legally Mr. McVeigh is acting within his rights. Even if he's a suspect, he has rights."

"After what he did to Nick." Warrick whispered angrily.

"A crime of which he has yet to be charged and that's up to Nick." Grissom explained, "We can't do anything for Nick right now, Warrick but just trust me on this okay? We'll get him out of this."

"What about the arrest affecting his career?"

"Leave it with me Warrick!" Grissom explained ready to throttle the taller black man. Truth was, he wasn't sure how to help Nick, but he had a plan.

As the officer finished handcuffing Nick, the Sheriff said to him "You know the drill Mr. Stokes; you have the right to remain silent…"

Grissom said to Nick as he walked by, "Nick, don't say anything. We'll bail you out in the morning okay. Just hang in there."

"We're with you man!" Warrick called.

Nick said nothing as the officer placed a hand on his hand and guided him into the back seat. The doors slammed shut. The Sheriff walked over to Grissom, "I'm sorry Dr. Grissom. I didn't want to do that."

"I understand." Grissom said, although he wanted to say a few different
words. Right now, they were on another jurisdiction's turf and backs needed to be scratched in order for things to turn out okay.

"I'm sure he'll make bail in the morning. Judge's a decent guy. Knows the family of the missing girl real well."

"We need to speak to her mother."

"I'll take you back to the trailer park again."

Grissom walked with him, "How long' has beens Nick been staying here?"

"Oh, I reckon a few weeks. Been staying with Stephanie's mom and uncle, brother's a real nice guy. Sorry I had to have him taken. He just got back from Baghdad a few months ago. Wife left with him nothing so he's staying with Steph and her mother for a while. Mom's a mature student taking correspondence courses to be a psychotherapist. Nice lady. Soon as she got the loan approved, she was gonna move to Vegas."

"How long's she been missing?"

"Almost 4 hours." Sheriff grimaced.

Warrick asked, "And how long has Mr.McVeigh been living in the park?"

"Shit!, He moved in months ago. I knew he had a record, but didn't seem like anything I needed to be too concerned about." Sheriff shook his head, "We'll have the hospital look after his wounds before bringing him in for questioning."

Grissom and Warrick nodded in unison.

"Do you think we can wake your Judge up to have him sign a search warrant to go through McVeigh's trailer?"

"Sure thing. I can get up now, I can see about getting Stokes and Sargent bailed out within a few hours."

"Sister can afford bail?" Warrick asked.

"I'll take care of it myself. Steph's..my..godchild.." Sheriff smiled sadly, "Didn't want to say anything but yeah. I knew her dad well."

Then he stopped them before he got into the cruiser. "Tell me something Dr.Grissom, what brought Mr. Stokes to this part of the state anyways? What's his deal with McVeigh?"

Grissom pondered the thought and answered with a heavy sigh, "It's a long story."

What had brought Nick to a trailer park outside of of Las Vegas?

XXXXxxXXXX

"I gotta say Greg," Nick said as the Radiohead tune filled the Denali, "I like this album."

"I'll burn one for you if you'd like." Greg said as he bopped his head slightly to the tambourine from the song Reckoner.

"Naw, I'll just download it." Nick answered taking another sip hoping the water will cool down his fever and ease his Mexican jumping bean of a stomach.

"Make sure its legal!" Greg said.

"Of course!" Nick answered sarcastically.

"Radiohead don't like illegal downloads, makes them vewy angry!"

"They make millions of dollars every year Greggo, they can do without my 10 bucks."

"Actually, they'll let you pay if you want!"

"Oh really, even 0!"

"Oh come on man, the guys gotta make some money!"

"Yeah, I gotta keep mine after the last weekend!"

Nick and Greg had been called out by Brass to the High Desert State Prison, over on highway 95 in Indian Springs. He told them he'd join them in a few hours.

"HDSP is the newer jail?" Greg asked as they drove along the highway under a blistering sun that even permeated the air-conditioned Denali.

"Hm," Nick answered hoarsely as he read the file, allowing Greg to drive. He'd been on clock for almost 24 hours and he was feeling it. Unfortunately, Warrick was off with the flu that he claimed that Nick himself had brought in to the Lab after returning from a convention. Thus Nick now found himself being dubbed 'Typhoid Mary' which eventually led to Hodges' favoured choice of 'Ground Zero'.

Nick rubbed the back of his neck, which still ached then grabbed a cold bottle of water from his lunch bag and started twisting the cap before groaning.

"You're sure you're up to this?" Greg asked concerned, "That flu took you down pretty bad and your not one to get sick."

"Yeah I'm alright. I've got some pain killers in my kit, I should be okay." Nick answered hoarsely, smiling at Greg.

"And whatsername…Pamela kept you going too." Greg asked with a sly smile.

Nick chuckled and shook his head, "Yeah, she did."

While in Reno for the Forensics Convention, Nick had run into a local CSI named Pamela, she was about 22, a little young for his taste, but she certainly kept what would of otherwise be a dull ass convention very interesting.

"So I guess, Nick, you were doing a conjugal, Cirque Du Soleil?"

Nick took a swig of water and answered in a thick twang, "Gentlemen don't kiss and tell."

"Aw c'mon." Greg whined.

"Just keep your eye on the road, Greggo!" Nick ordered the Level One.

The two men were quiet for a moment; the silence enabling Nick to let his mind wander back to his hotel room, that they escaped to during lunch or dinner hour for some recreation.

She was athletic like him, her body well defined, muscular which made the bed a marathon, liked to play pool and loved basketball. She loved the Knicks, which caused some playful friction between them.

They talked a few times since his return, but the flu had kept him out of commission although he managed to get an email to her letting her know that he was sick and wouldn't be near a phone anytime soon.

"Oh man!" Nick said rubbing his temples as the pain increased.

"Dude, if you're gonna lurch, and then let me at least pull over so you don't mess up the Denali!" Greg warned.

"I'm not gonna puke man!" Nick snapped and in gulped in some air, "But if it makes you feel better, I'll use this pail here." He reached for the small garbage pail Greg had in the back seat.

"No way," Greg said, "I'll pull over and you can upchuck on the side of the road there. I'm not smelling your barf, we're not that close, Nick."

"Oh really Greg, how close are we?" Nick said flirtatiously, "I mean, I thought our man love had reached a certain level where we were comfortable enough to put up with each other's bodily function. I mean you wouldn't get offended if I let one off in the car would you, cause this flu did something to my stomach and it ain't fully recovered."

"Fuck off!" The younger man snarled shaking his head.

Nick laughed and leaned back into the seat, lowering the reflector and glancing at the file Grissom handed them.

"High Desert was opened in 20, it's about 1,576,0 square feet." He said to steer the conversation away from all things gross.

"Whew!" Greg exclaimed, "That's a lot of inmates."

"Largest major institution of the Nevada Department of Corrections." Nick told him. "Designed to house up to 1,832 inmates."

The prison's utopian style buildings emerged in the hot blazing sun giving Nick and Greg an ominous feeling. The walls appeared to be screaming 'stay back' to them.

Greg swallowed hard at the site of the stern fences with circular barbed wire. "First prison crime scene" He said nervously to Nick who jumped out of the Denali and headed for the back.

"Aww relax!" Nick smiled, "Worst case scenario, a few of the guys might whistle at you."

Greg moaned, "Great!"

"Hey, tough life in there."

"Yeah, I guess."

That's when Nick noticed the number of guards standing outside the prison walls, placards in tow.

"Unsafe Conditions!" One read"Solidarity!" Nick got out of the truck, slid on his shades and puzzled at the sight.

A heavy set man, with grey hair and blackframed glasses walked out nervously. Nick walked over to him."Mr.O'Flynn!"

"Mr. Stokes, good to see you." The man stared nervously at the guards, who stood like bikers readying for a fight, their arms folded straining their brown uniforms. They eyed the CSIs up and down and mumbled amongst each other.

"No one said anything about labour action?" Nick asked the Director.

"Just happened this morning after the call was put in about the murdered guard."

"Isn't this private prison?" Greg asked walking up beside Nick.

"Well, that didn't mean one of them did it."

Nick hesitated then spoke up, "Is it safe enough for us in there?"

"We're on a lockdown Mr. Stokes, all the prisoners are accounted for." Mr. O'Flynn assured him.

"Well, who did the lockdown?" Nick asked, cocking his head curiously, never one to trust bureaucratic promises.

"Our administrative staff."

Nick snorted shaking his head in disbelief at Greg, whose eyes widened nervously, "Makes me feel much better."

"Well none of your own officers would be willing to come down and keep an eye on you guys."

"Not likely." Greg sighed in exasperation not having time for unions and their politics, "No one likes their picket line crossed by a fellow law enforcement official."

"Well these guys aren't really.." Nick started and then trailed off, realizing he could be overheard by the guards and corrections officers were known to have long memories.

The Texan looked at the younger CSI and told him, "Okay let's go."

"You wanna go in there with these guys on strike?" Greg asked not too shocked by Nick's impulsivity as it was the Texan's Achilles heels. "And shouldn't we wait for Brass?"

Nick laughed dismissively, "It's all locked down Greg."

"You sure?" Greg asked, nervously, pissed that his buddy was trying to be a superhero. Had he not learned along time ago the detriment of taking the road of caution?

Nick leaned over and elbowed him, "Just be sure your belt is extra tight Greggo." And with a laugh, the Texan headed into the prison with Greg following behind him. Sure enough, as the Director took them through the halls, a few cat calls were hurled their way.

They cleared security and followed the Director through the halls, but as their footsteps rang in, announcing their presence, both men carefully avoided the stares of the prisoners.

However, they were noticed.

"Hey spikey boy, wanna see how many licks it takes to get to the centre of my lollipop?"

Greg looked over and glanced at a tall, skinny white man with long black hair, tattooed arms, smiling at him with whiter then white teeth.

"Aren't prisons supposed to closed to visitors if there's any kind of labour action?" Greg asked nervously, following Nick.

"Look man, if you're scared just go and I'll take care of it. We're only processing one room." Nick was starting to get inpatient due, in part, to sickness and in part of being tired of Greg holding him back from a potentially wicked crime scene.

"No..I'll stay." Greg said reluctantly.

"Just over here." Mr. O'Flynn said as they headed around a bend and came to an office where the body of Conrad Noire laid.

It was comfortably decorated office. The mahogany desk was lined with pictures of the Director's family as well as some of the jail guards including the victim.

Super Dave knelt on the floor nervously, "Strike started after I got here."

He checked the liver temp, "He's been dead for about three hours, and rigor hasn't set in yet..."

The man appeared to be 52 with thick, black hair with streaks of grey on his temple. A pool of blood had formed around his head, his black eyes opened with a "Why me?" expression. He laid in a fetal position by the desk; a pool blood formed from a wound that had landed smack down in the middle of his skull, cast off decorated the mahogany desk beside him.

The CSI's set their kits on the floor, knelt down and opened them, snapping on latex gloves and rummaging for tools. Nick did a quick survey of the room and took note that the chair the vice appeared to be sitting in, was knocked over, with the leg pulled off, meaning
there's a chance that it was the murder weapon. Pictures on the wall smashed, the one holding the Director's education in particular looked as if it had been yanked off the wall and smashed to bits.

The trajectory of blood was remarkable. It was as if the vic's head had exploded and the desk was like a canvass: a Picasso like painting of reds and sprays.

Greg began to walk around taking note of the same things and jotting it down on a note pad. Nick turned his attention to the vic and asked, "Preliminary COD, Super Dave?"

The Coroner's Assistant shrugged, "At first glance, blunt force trauma, but we'll be able to tell more when we get him on the slab."

There were some wooden fragments in the wound. Nick pulled some tweezers from his kit and carefully picked them out . He made a mental note to test the wood against the wood of the chair lying next to him.

Nick walked around the office, taking note of things. College diplomas on the wall, awards, pictures with high-powered friends and so forth: typical of someone in the Director's position. The shelf held a collection of books and knick-knacks, a spoon collection?

Nick smirked and turned around to check the DB again. Then he noticed that the guard still had a book in his hand.

"In the Grip of Grace." Nick read aloud, "Max Lucado."

"He's a Christian book writer," The Director explained, "Conrad was a recent convert."

"I know who the writer is." Nick said, hating the fact that someone insinuated he was ignorant of writers, something he dealt with his boss on a regular basis. "My sister is a born-again Christian; she's always telling me to read this guy's books."

Greg leaned over and whispered with a sly smile, "Was she born before or after your burial ordeal?"

"Shut up!" Nick whispered back then added, "After..."

"Conrad Noir was one of our best guards. He knew how to keep these guys in. He was tough, but fair, and converted some of our prisoners." Mr. O'Flynn ran a hand through his white hair, perspiration coating his forehead; his blue eyes still in shock and dismay.

Nick snorted, "Yeah, nice way to get paroled early or avoid the chamber, get close and personal with Jesus!"

"Conrad and I were discussing a promotion when I was called away; when I got back, there he was. I notified the Lead Guard, who's been itching to get this place unionized, and he immediately put out the word and all of them filed out of here. They were nice enough to make sure the prisoners were back in their cells before they did that."

"Are you sure they got all of them?" Greg asked, scanning the collection of books on the shelf.

"Our non-corrections staff did a head count before you guys came."

"How many are there of you?" Nick asked, looking up from the body.

The Director cleared his throat, "Including the cooks, the protective staff and some of our professions...umm...82."

Nick looked at Greg, annoyed with the information, "And how many Correction Officers do you have out on strike?"

"All 265 of them."

"Great!" Nick groaned, exasperated. His nerves were already frail due to sickness.

"Look, we are a state of the art prison with the best technology available to the officers." The Director said defensively.

"Where was Mr. Noire before he came to your office?"

"In the library." Mr. Flynn answered.

He looked up at the Director, "Where's the library?"

"Just down the hall. It's locked though."

"Well, can I just go have a look?" Nick asked, impatiently, now realizing that Greg was right, it was too soon after his flu to be back at work, but here he was and he just wanted to get it out of the way.

"I'd prefer it if we could keep this to the immediate area." Mr. O'Flynn said nervously, "I mean we're on lockdown, but… I'm not comfortable with you searching through the rest of the area."

"Well, you said you have every prisoner in the facility locked up, don't you?" Nick asked, running hand through his hair.

"Yes, but…!"

"Someone can stay with me?" The Texan asked, wishing he didn't have to spoon feed this guy.

"We don't have enough administrative staff, they're off feeding the prisoners right now."

Nick looked at him impatiently, "Then lock the door and I'll be fine."

Greg looked at Nick alarmed, "I don't like that idea."

"Aww man, I just wanna finish this and go home. I'm sick." Nick whined, as he felt the sweat built up in his shirt under the black, nylon vest.

"Call Grissom and have him come out then!" Greg suggested, pulling out a flashlight.

"No, we don't need him." Nick crossed out the idea: the last thing he needed was Bugman surveying his work.

"I'll take you down there." A young man, coming in with a tray of food for the director, said, "And I'll stay with while you look around."

Nick followed the young Hispanic down the hall listening to him prattle on and on about he was saving up to go to college one day. The sound was like nails on a chalk board for the Texan and was relieved when they got to the entrance of the library.

It was a fair size library that looked pretty much like any other open to the community. The horizontal blinds were drawn. There was no one at the check out desk, as the librarian was holed up in the staff cafeteria until the strike ended.

"We have all kinds of textbooks here," Joe, the cook, told him, "A lot of these guys love to read the law books."

Nick snorted, "Yeah I bet they do." Then he made his way over to the magazine rack where some copies of Sports Illustrated, Time and National Geographic. "Does this place get a lot of traffic?"

"Yep, some of the guys study in here. They get free university education."

"No shit!" Nick answered sarcastically thinking about the number of kids out there who don't commit any crime and yet are students loaned up the wazzoo. He was startled then by a loud, horn like alarm sounding like an abbreviated air-raid siren.

"Oh shit!" The cook said. He looked at his Blackberry and recognized the code. "Prisoner on the loose!"

"What the fuck! You guys had 'em on lock down." Nick swerved and saw that the kid was gone, the door locked behind him. He ran over and tried to get out, but the kid mouthed the words, "I'll be back!"

The Texan stood there shocked. He pulled out his cell phone and called Greg, but the line was blocked for some strange reason. Frustration built as each time he rang Greg, he was greeted with beeping noises. He tried to message the kid, but even that wasn't working.

"Gees, Lab pays for the best reception and it gets jammed in an emergency." Nick mumbled, as he put the phone back in its holder. He surveyed his surroundings once more and then went over to pick up some Sports Illustrated. They were old and dusty.

His eye caught a copy of 'The Anthology of T.S. Elliot' and he thumbed it to a poem he had read in college, 'The Hollow Men'.

Unbeknownst to his colleagues, Nick was an avid reader and had a couple of anthologies of epic writers and poets. He liked Edgar Allan Poe and T.S. Elliot. 'The Hollow Men' was his favourite poem.

Unlike Grissom, Nick kept that part of himself hidden for no other reason, as he didn't feel it had any connection to his job. He didn't bring his interests to work, he kept them out of work. His father had always told him that there was a time and a place for everything and literature didn't belong at work. Work was work and play was play.

Now, since it looked like he was going to be in the library for a while, Nick sat on the table and started to read through his favourite poem.

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Nick was reading the last stanza of the poem when his ear perked at the sound of noises coming from the shelves. Rats perhaps? Mice? The prison cat-the damn thing that followed him around earlier? He put the book down, slid off the table and slowly began to walk towards the noise.

All of a sudden, the lights went out plunging the library into sheer darkness. Blackness that made Nick jump and reach for his gun, but a giant hand had grabbed his wrist and twisted around and pushed it up his back.

"Fuck!" Nick screamed, "Get off me.."

Fabric was shoved into his mouth and he was yanked up against a muscle-bound body and held by equally muscles bound arms. "Had my eye on you each time you came to visit. When I was in holding at Clark County; remember me? I sure remember you." A twangy voice whispered in his ear, as one hand slid down his front and gripped his privates roughly.

Nick squirmed and tried to kick, and screamed until he felt something round pressed against his temple.

"Get him over to that table there." The voice was guttural, a slight twang indicative of a southerner.

"Gotcha!" Another voice more plain accented voice agreed.

XXXxxxXXX

Greg sat in the Director's Office, trying to call Nick's cell phone. It rang and rang. He messaged with no success. What the hell?

"I can't get in touch with him." He said to the Director, his face filled with worry.

"I'm sure he's safe. I trust my men to look after you."

Something in Greg's gut said otherwise, so he continued dialling the number but not getting any answer.

"Can we …"

The Director shook his head, "At this point we cannot do anything until all of this is cleared."

A/N: I lovingly borrowed the title from an independent French film from 2002 that starred Monica Bellucci. I've never seen the movie itself but the story centres around a man who seeks vengeance on a man he suspects rapes his girlfriend only to find out he's got the wrong guy.