Disclaimer: I believe this mathematical proof shall explain all.
Cuddly Carrots = Female
Steve Franks = Male
Female = Fe + Male
Male=Female - Fe
Therefore, by the Transitive Property of Equality,
Cuddly Carrots = Steve Franks + Fe
Steve Franks=Cuddly Carrots - Fe
Standard form: No, I don't own Psych, nor do I own the Transitive Property of Equality. I do, however, participate in an AP Calculus class. Don't drink and derive.
iiiii
Thursday March 24, 1992
iiiii
"Shawn! Quit trying to lick the icing off of Gus's cupcake and get your own!" Henry yells as he watches Shawn stick his tongue out at Gus's outstretched arm, the awkward and rather scrawny boy unaware of the impending danger his confectionery is in due to his best friend's love of all things sugary and pineapple flavored—like the icing on the cupcakes.
"Shawn! I can't believe you! That's disgusting!" Gus quickly jerks his cupcake towards his chest, but it's too late. The cupcake has been contaminated by Shawn's saliva.
Gus glares at Shawn in disgust and throws the cupcake in his face. It was one of Gus's finer moments.
"Gus! Dude! So not cool! This was my favorite shirt!" Shawn yelled as the cupcake fell from his face to smear all over Captain Crunch's hat.
"Yeah, just like icing is my favorite part of a cupcake! You know that Shawn!"
"But it wasn't my fault!"
"Shawn, if you're going to say the gremlins made you do it, then don't! I'm tired of you always doing stuff like this and blaming someone else, especially when it's so obviously you!"
"But it really wasn't! I swear! You—" Shawn was cut off by Henry, who decided to finally intervene.
"No Shawn. One of these days, you're going to have to realize that when it comes to your actions, you have no one to blame but yourself. There's going to come a day when you mess up so bad, that the only way to get out is to fess up." Henry's prophetic words rang in the air, despite Shawn's apparent apathy as he sulked off.
iiiii
Present Day
iiiii
Pseudo Psychic, Shawn Spencer knew that today would be a bad day despite his bubbling, easy-going and pleasant outlook on life.
It started when he woke up and felt a lump pressed against his back, a lump that would mean old people back pain for a week—coincidentally, a lump that also meant that he needed a new laptop, the old one having been crushed to death by Shawn's erratic sleep movements. How was he supposed to know that when he was dreaming of saving Spongebob's house from the nematodes, he was actually karate chopping the screen in? Or that instead of holding one of said nematodes down with his foot and handcuffing the thing, he was actually ripping the screen from his laptop (he didn't even know he was that strong, but Shawn wasn't about to tell anyone that)?
He didn't know how the computer keys became dislodged and joined forces with his comforter to make his day as difficult as possible. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to know that one…
The day was still salvageable—two Aleves later—even when his first customer of the day came ridiculously early, leaving him no time to grab a pineapple smoothie from Jamba when the rude dude called Shawn's cell phone sounding irate and not taking any of Shawn's psychic excuses about his alleged 'tardiness' (sometimes, people could be so needy…). Even after he realized that the chicken he ate for lunch wasn't cooked properly and the restaurant bathroom had no toilet paper, he felt that the day still had a shining chance.
He went home early—best part about being psychic. At any time, he could go home and take a nap to "reconfigure his inner eye" and skive off work. He also had the power to not take any cases after two, due to the draining effect of solar flares on his connection to the world beyond. Life was good.
Humming to himself some 80s song that probably should have stayed in the 80s, he chopped up a pineapple and put some off to the side—he was in the mood for some good, old-fashioned, home made Pineapple Upside Down Cake. Yum. He took the rest and put it in the blender—on his way back, he made a stop at Jamba, but they had run out of pineapple smoothie flavor (rats )—and added the other, less important, non-pineapple ingredients. He pre-heated his Easy Bake Oven and got to mixing his smoothie in the blender. Perhaps this wasn't going to be the worst day ever. It still had a chance to redeem itself! It was only two o'clock, for crying out loud! Shawn smiled and ignored the knot in his back.
Smoothie done, poured into a special occasion cup, and topped with a paper umbrella and straw, he checked on the Oven and found it a suitable warmth. He continued on with making his cake, sipping his smoothie all the while.
He nearly put it into the Oven when he saw those disappointingly nasty pineapple jelly beans and got an idea (that no one at home should ever try unless accompanied by an adult mature enough to pass as parental supervision). He added the jelly beans to his cake and put it in the Oven, clapping excitedly as he stared at it in pride.
He grabbed his half-slurped smoothie, went into his bedroom and then cleared his bed of his laptop's remains, happily humming a rather up beat funeral dirge. He put his smoothie on the nightstand, got into bed and pulled up his covers. He reached again for the smoothie when his highly trained eyes caught a movement in the corner, nearest his head. He quickly looked over, but instead heard a loud thwack and felt intense pain across his forehead. He saw stars for a brief moment before everything went black.
When he woke, he found himself strapped in a chair that looked as if it belonged in a Criminal Minds episode, instead of taking a nap in his room, waiting for the Easy Bake to finish cooking his Pineapple Upside Down Cake.
At that point, he finally succumbed to the fact that today just wasn't his day.
iiiii
The Next Day
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"Dang it Shawn! Quit screwin' around and answer your dang phone!" Gus pressed re-dial again, despite the fact that he was driving and really should have been paying more attention to the road. He knew the risks, but this was important, dang it!
Gus finally gave up and decided to just drive on over to Shawn's apartment, finding the Psych office oddly empty. Shawn usually was in there before Gus! It was the only thing Gus ever saw Shawn be punctual for—or at least, punctual for a two day streak. But it really wasn't that odd, considering Shawn was still late a good two days out of the week. Gus shook his head in that sassy way of his. He decided that one of these days, he was going to become the irresponsible friend and see how Shawn liked that!
Gus smirked until he conceded that knowing Shawn, he probably would like it. Shawn would probably be proud, actually.
Gus sighed. He just never could win anything when it came to Shawn—except that one time, when he smeared that cupcake all over Shawn's stupid Captain Crunch t-shirt.
It was one of his finer moments.
Gus's smirk came back on.
Gus turned into the drive of the building shared with a Laundromat. Only Shawn could possibly have chosen a place to live simply because it was near a place that served pineapple smoothies.
Gus rolled his eyes at Shawn's motorcycle. He knew that Shawn only got it to tick off his father, despite what Shawn told everyone else about "the feeling of the wind against his face, whispering 'freedom, freedom!'". Shawn could be so full of it sometimes.
Gus opened the door—Shawn always forgot to lock it, despite his remarkable ability to detect the slightest idiosyncrasies of strangers within two minutes. It always bothered Gus. Despite his constant nagging and general disapproval, and Shawn's constant need to find out what the next big, stupid and irresponsible thing to do is, they were still best friends. Gus worried about him.
Of course, Gus also worried about everything else, but that was irrelevant.
Gus looked inside and found the usual mess, but there was something else…Something felt off.
Something felt…wrong.
It wasn't the feeling he got when Shawn had just done something stupid and life-altering (like buying the Psych office and using Gus's name without consulting him), it was a different kind of dread. He tried to ignore it and entered Shawn's home anyways.
He smelled something burning, something…pineapple? Shawn never left something pineapple flavored to burn. It just wasn't in his nature.
Gus came into the kitchen and unplugged the Easy Bake Oven that had obviously been sitting for a while, considering the foul odor permeating from it and the suggestions of the slightest tendrils of smoke escaping it. Gus's worry increased, but of course it could have just been one of Shawn's bizarre experiments. You never really knew when it came to Shawn Spencer.
"Shawn? Are you here?" Gus called. It wasn't normal. Usually by now Shawn was either sneaking up on Gus and scaring the living daylights out of him, or playfully teasing him—despite his sensitive disposition—well, more likely in spite of his sensitive disposition.
"Shawn! This isn't funny!" Gus called out again, the sense of dread building and building as he walked through the obviously deserted place. Had Shawn left again? No, his motorcycle was still parked outside. He'd never leave without that thing. He was paranoid that his father would get a hold of it and sell it to a chop shop, piece by piece. Knowing Shawn's father, this fear wasn't exactly unfounded.
Gus walked to Shawn's bedroom and knocked—he'd made that mistake before and knew better than to repeat it, one never really did know what Shawn could possibly be up to behind closed doors, and really, it was better left that way.
"Shawn! Wake up!" Gus said, his voice shaking a bit. If this was a prank, he just might finally murder that scrawny, pitiful excuse of a friend.
No sound came from behind the door, no giggles, no shifting.
Nothing.
"Fine! I'm coming in, and so help me if I find you doing something that'll put me into a catatonic state again!" He wondered if Shawn even knew the what word 'catatonic' was for a brief second before opening the door to find exactly what he had hoped to never find—except perhaps the day Shawn told him that the ghost behind his wall had actually been a walkie-talkie.
What? He was really pissed at Shawn that day, I'm just saying.
iiiii
"Mr. Spencer, so nice of you to join us." A calming voice spoke from the shadows. Something though, bothered him about the voice. It sounded…odd. He couldn't place it, and it definitely wasn't familiar, but something wasn't right about it—beyond the fact that he was strapped down to a chair, of course.
Shawn couldn't see his captor at all, despite the skills his father instilled in him since the day he accidentally told his dad he wanted to be a police officer.
Shawn Spencer was one of the very few people who could say that the very worst mistake of their life was made at the tender age of five.
"Yeah…thank you so much for your lovely invitation. I would have RSVP'd the moment I got it, but you know how life is." Shawn denied that the pain across his forehead and the rasp in his voice ruined any of the wit in his words. Talking had been a mistake. He now felt nauseous and realized that his forehead was covered in something wet and sticky. Ew. Maybe when—if would technically be the correct term, but he didn't want to dwell on that—he got out of there, he could gross out Gus with the gore-fest on his forehead. It was an interesting idea to entertain. Definitely had some merit to it.
"Indeed." The voice spoke, breaking Shawn out of his reverie, but Shawn still couldn't see the face the voice belonged to, nor could he figure out what was so weird about the voice.
"You know, my nose really itches." Shawn said, grasping at straws to see if he could talk his way out of the mess he was in.
"Does it, now?" The voice sounded slightly amused.
"Oh yes. In fact, unless if I scratch it now, then my nose mites will rebel and jump onto you." Shawn said. "It's a fatal parasite. I'll probably die soon, and then, you'll really have to worry, you see, because then, they'll all jump out onto you and you'll have to itch your nose everyday for the rest of your life until they finally eat the nasonic lobe, killing you in a very slow and painful manner. The scratching soothes them and slows their progress. I would know. It's a very rare parasite. The last people to have contracted them were the ancient Egyptians. That's why the Sphinx doesn't have a nose. It's the only way to get rid of them, you know. For me, the diagnosis came too late, but you can still have a chance, just let me scratch my nose."
"Is that so? Pity, for you that is. I happen to be immune to nose mites." The voice said.
"Really? I was unaware that people could be immune to nose mites, unless of course if—OH MY—" Shawn screamed before he could finish talking, for his captor had finally stepped out from the shadows and into the light.
It wasn't a pretty sight.
iiiii
Juliet O'Hara had just sat down at her desk, ready to read some files for her newest case, when her pager went off.
Hmm. That's odd, usually it doesn't go off so soon in the morning, she thought to herself. She looked at it and began to head over to the conference room, humming to herself. Today was a good day so far, but most days were. She was just a happy person in general, in all honesty.
She continued her cheerful trip to the conference room, smiling at everyone as was her usual custom, despite certain kill-joys and happiness suckers who liked to sue people for taking the time to try and get to know them.
Juliet frowned a bit at the thought. It was still a sore spot that Lassie—er—Detective Lassiter still liked to tease her about. Juliet waved at the secretary and smiled again, deciding to not let negativity and the insensitivity of others ruin her day. She rounded the corner and reached the conference room, waves of optimism rolling off of her determinedly. Her eyes widened.
Everyone was there, even the janitor—of course, that was probably because someone spilled their coffee, judging by the brown liquid on the floor—but still! Everyone was there!
Well, everyone except for Shawn. He was probably waiting for either the most exciting part of the meeting or the dullest to make a dramatic entrance, more than likely solving whatever the case was that Chief Vick needed so many people for.
Juliet frowned. Someone else was missing…
Gus!
That was odd. He was usually so punctual—where was he?
Juliet looked around and noted everyone else's confusion. She looked over at Lassiter—and rolled her eyes, sometimes she wondered how she managed not wring his neck. Lassiter was lounging back in his rolling chair, an air of "Look at me, I'm superior to all of you lower forms of life, despite the fact that Detective O'Hara got a higher score on the deductive reasoning test than I did" hanging about him. She caught McNab's eyes. He was a bit more reasonable. Nice. Friendly. He always made her smile.
Sure enough, McNab was grinning away. He shrugged, and indicated the seat next to him. He was just so nice. Juliet smiled warmly and went to sit next to him.
"Hey, McNab. Do you know what's going on?" Juliet asked.
"Nope. Seems strange though, doesn't it? I mean, last time Chief Vick called us all here together, didn't it have something to do with Yang?"
"Yeah. I hope it's nothing too serious…" Juliet trailed off.
"Yeah, me—" McNab was cut off by Chief Vick's sudden appearance.
"I have called you all here because something serious has happened." Chief Vick announced grimly.
Everyone sat up straighter, even Lassiter. It was almost kind of comical—she could see why Shawn teased the man so much. He was just such a…such a…do-gooder teacher's pet suck up brown nose. He practically begged for a good dressing down, of course, it could just be that hanging around with Shawn so much was beginning to rub off on her.
"One of our very own has been taken." Chief Vick announced, her eyes sweeping across the room and boring into everyone else's. The room went dead quiet for a second before everyone shuffled a bit to see who was missing. Juliet had a bad feeling in her gut. Only two people were missing from the room, and she was dating one of them.
"This morning, Mr. Guster went to Mr. Spencer's apartment to find that Mr. Spencer wasn't there." Chief Vick said. Juliet's heart plummeted into her stomach, squishing the butterflies that had fluttered around the moment she walked in and saw everyone in the room.
The air became so tense, a machete would have been needed to slice through it, until a snort broke the silence.
"Well, pardon me for interrupting, but that doesn't mean we should be concerned. Spencer probably just skipped town and went to bother someone else!" Lassiter snorted again, looking a bit too gleeful, but cowered slightly under Chief Vick's glare.
"If you have finished, Detective Lassiter." She was so scary sometimes, even Hercules would have cowered at the look she was sending Lassiter. Serves him right, though, Juliet thought smugly. "Mr. Guster entered Mr. Spencer's apartment and did not find him. What Mr. Guster found instead was Mr. Spencer's motorcycle, his pineapple crap burning in an Easy Bake Oven, a broken lap top, and blood all over Mr. Spencer's sheets!" Chief Vick slammed her hands on the table, causing everyone to jump. Lassiter looked down at the floor, avoiding her gaze. Juliet froze, a horrified expression on her face, and all thoughts of sticking it to Lassiter forgotten.
"Now, despite any…personal…" Chief Vick spat that last word out with such venom, Lassiter quivered a bit, "…ties to this case, I want everyone to take this on as top priority. Though Mr. Spencer may not be an actual officer, and his methods questionable, he is still one of us. Detectives O'Hara and Lassiter, I want both of you at the scene. You two will take charge. McNab, I want you to talk to Mr. Guster, and perhaps calm him down a bit. He's a little…distressed, and I want you to notify Henry. He's taking a vacation, and I think he ought to know ASAP. Under no circumstances is he to join the case. Understood? Everyone else, do what you'd normally do if this were any other case, and if you don't know what to do, take another case and see what you can do to keep us from getting too backed up on cases for the time being. Now go!" Chief Vick glared and everyone scattered, frightened.
iiiii
Shawn was still screaming ten minutes later, voice showing no signs of ever giving out.
"For the love of Eros, will you shut the heck up!" Shawn continued to scream in that girly way. "Oh my gosh! What are you, part banshee?" Shawn's kidnapper cried in pain, hands covering his ears.
Shawn still screamed, if anything, it got louder.
"That's it! If you don't shut up, I'm taping your mouth shut!" Shawn stopped.
"Thank you Mr. Spencer. Now, say goodnight." Shawn's kidnapper laughed evilly, but first, he gagged Shawn. He was a smart man. He could learn from his mistakes.
"If you're good, I promise you won't feel a thing. And then afterwards, the real fun will begin." The man smirked as Shawn watched in horror. The man pulled something out from inside his pockets in that long trench coat of his, something that cast a long shadow on the wall…
iiiii
Carlton stepped out of his Crown Victoria, slamming the door with unnecessary force. He rolled his eyes at O'Hara's distress. For all he knew, this was some elaborate prank on Gus, or even on the entire SBPD and they were going to walk in and find nothing more than Spencer laughing hysterically while cleaning the red Kool-Aide out of his sheets.
He impatiently walked up to the door and saw the yellow tape and forensic lab geeks pilfering about. He heard O'Hara's gasp next to him and rolled his eyes again. He scrunched up his nose for a moment in revulsion.
"What the Hell?" Carlton said aloud. It smelled like a mix between burning plastic, pineapple, and something else he couldn't place his finger on.
"Chief Vick said that Gus came here and found Shawn's pineapple mess, remember?" He noticed that she didn't remind him of the other, albeit limited, details the Chief gave them. He also remembered her gasp, so she really wasn't one to talk. He had to admit, the smell was atrocious.
"I know that, O'Hara!" Carlton said gruffly without the least bit of petty.
He caught the roll of her eyes.
"Yeah. Whatever." She mumbled. Carlton decided to ignore it and grabbed one of the scrawny cop-wannabes and see what was going on.
"You! Tell me what you know." He said, grabbing the kid's arm with perhaps a bit more force than necessary.
"Oh!" The kid started, but had more guts than Carlton would have guessed because he looked him right in the eye as he briefed Carlton on their findings. "No sign of forced entry, so he either knew his attacker, or what I think is more likely considering the scene, the vic left the door unlocked." Carlton nodded. It was precisely the thing the cocky con artist would do. Forgetting to lock his door. Moron. "The vic wasn't expecting anything because not only, though I'm sure you can smell it too, was he cooking up some sort of bizarre pineapple thing, but he had an unfinished smoothie spilled all over the floor, as if it had been knocked over in a struggle. The perp wore gloves, so—"
"How do you know that?"
"Because the weapon used to knock the vic out is still here with no fingerprints on it. He either did a damn good job of wiping it, or he wore gloves. Go into his room. That's where he was abducted from—but I'm warning you, it's not pretty."
"Thank you, Mr…" Carlton trailed off.
"My name is still the same as the last time you asked, Detective Lassiter. How difficult is it to remember Dr. Halls?" The kid muttered as he walked off.
Carlton frowned.
"Have I really asked him that before?"
"Every crime scene I've seen him at."
"Huh." Carlton shrugged his shoulders and went in the direct Dr. Halls indicated the crime scene was at.
He was right. It wasn't pretty.
Though not gory by movie standards, by real life standards it was a mess.
A shattered glass lay on the floor, covering the scene in that stupid pineapple crap Spencer always chugged as if it were water from the Fountain of Youth.
On the headboard and the wall behind it, there were a few blood spatters indicative of a struggle and a really bad headache later for Spencer—a thought that gave Carlton a sick sense of glee, until he saw the weapon and winced.
It was a long, hand carved, wooden cane. It was polished and perfect until one saw the end of the stick that obviously came in contact with Spencer's head, considering the way it was slightly cracked and splintered. It had a bit of blood on the end, probably due to the slight splintering rather than actual force, but when Carlton looked at it closer, he saw some odd looking raised defects that definitely weren't splinters.
"O'Hara, get me a glove, will you?" Carlton asked her without looking her way.
He felt her presence behind him a moment later. She pressed the glove into his hand. He put it on unceremoniously and strode over to the walking stick. He picked it up with the gloved hand and read the raised inscription. His face paled.
"What is that supposed to mean?" O'Hara asked, worry drenching her voice. Worry that Carlton now knew was well placed.
"It means, O'Hara, that Spencer is in more trouble than we thought." Was his solemn response.
OBEY
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Shawn flinched as the long hypodermic needle came after him—he really hated pointy things—and relaxed, knowing that any attempts at freeing himself in that moment would likely end in tearing his veins. The needle sank into his skin, the point sinking deeper and deeper until he felt the liquid shooting into his bloodstream, contaminating him with whatever the crap it was. His eyelids began to droop, the world began to spin, and before he lost sight of everything, he could have sworn he felt something wipe at his forehead. Something cold, harsh, and burning…
iiiii
Gus fidgeted in the chair, despite Buzz's attempts at calming him.
What should he do? Shawn was always the one who got them out of trouble like this! Gus was nothing without Shawn. He was just another ordinary, way too nerdy for his own good, do-right Pharmaceutical Salesman. The only really astounding thing about Gus besides his best friend, was his super sniffer! All that helped him do was tell that for some reason Shawn not only kept those rotten tasting pineapple jelly beans, but that he decided to add it to one of his equally distasteful Pineapple Upside Down Cakes he thought he could make with an Easy Bake Oven he got off of eBay! What did that accomplish? Nothing except a slight queasiness in his stomach.
"Look, Officer McNab. I appreciate your concern, but—" Gus was cut off by the sound of a door slamming hard. "Buzz, I thought the walls in the interrogation room were supposed to be sound proof?" Gus asked.
"They are." Buzz looked just as confused as Gus. "Stay here. I'm going to go see what's going on" Buzz got up and opened the door and when he did, there was a loud shout that could only mean one thing.
"I see that Shawn's dad has been notified." Gus said to Buzz.
"Yeah…I thought he sounded scary on the phone…"
"I think you might want to hide. I'm just saying." Gus said.
"Yeah…perhaps you're right…" Buzz watched as Mr. Spencer raged through the halls of the Santa Barbara Police Department, wearing a fisherman's hat covered in tackle, his fishing vest, dungarees and a shirt so bright that Gus felt his nausea return.
"Karen! Where the Hell is my son! Karen! KAREN!" Shawn's dad yelled like a madman.
Suddenly, Gus was glad to be tucked away safe in the interrogation room.
iiiii
Shawn woke up in pain.
Agony.
His head hurt so bad…
It felt almost as if it were on fire!
Shawn tried to scream, but something was in his mouth, choking him, gagging him—
He couldn't move! Something was wrong with him!
He wanted to open his eyes, but they wouldn't move! Nothing moved!
He heard a humming going on above the pain…cheerful, as though oblivious to the intense pain above him.
Shawn couldn't even make a joke, it hurt so bad!
"I think that around now, Mr. Spencer, you are probably waking up." The voice said. Shawn would have jumped, but he was trapped—frozen, helpless.
The pain paused and Shawn heard a rustling going on above him.
"Oh yes. I believe you have been awake for ten minutes, if I am correct." The rustling stopped and the pain continued. Shawn tried to gasp, to scream, anything, but he was still frozen.
"Don't worry. I am nearly done, of course you'll be sore for awhile." Shawn's tormenter chuckled. In any normal situation, it would have sounded normal, but the lightheartedness of it struck fear through Shawn. Here he was, frozen before a true maniac. Neither Yin nor Yang could possibly have anything on this guy. Shawn knew he was not only going to die, but worse, it would be painful and slow—if the fire dancing across his head was any sort of hint.
"You don't have much to fear despite the pain you're feeling. I'm going to let you live, of course. Well, I'm going to let you live for now, at least. I do have to show off my handiwork, don't I?" The voice snickered. "I mean, I can't possibly be doing all this work for naught, can I? No, no. That would never do. I am an artist, after all, and true artists do things for people to see.
"Of course, this isn't my only work when it comes to you, Mr. Spencer. In fact, this won't even be finished when I release you. No, my friend. I have plans for you. I have plans for you and Santa Barbara. You may not think so now, but don't worry. You are special.
"You, Mr. Spencer, are mine!" The voice cackled evilly and the pain seemed to intensify.
Shawn had never wanted to scream so badly in his life.
Blissfully, the world went black again.
iiiii
Carlton and O'Hara made it back to the station, mildly—to put it lightly—disturbed at what they had found.
Carlton himself usually tried to go with the simplest solution available to him, but this time, he was at a loss.
The inscription on the stick had been directly on the part that connected with Spencer's head. Had it been meant that way? Was the perp sending a message—stupid question. Of course the perp was trying to send a message. He left the stick right in plain sight for all to see!
The freak probably even made it himself! Sometimes, Carlton was thoroughly disgusted with mankind.
Carlton shook his head, trying to clear it, and led O'Hara to the interrogation room.
"Karen! What the Hell do you mean I can't help on this case! HE'S MY SON! MY SON!" A voice shouted from inside of Chief Vick's office.
"I see Henry has been informed." Carlton acknowledged.
"Poor Mr. Spencer…" O'Hara said softly.
They reverted back to their silence and continued on towards the interrogation room.
"Officer McNab, we'll take it from here." Carlton said as he entered the room.
"Alright, Detective. I guess I'll go and…well…I guess I'll just go." McNab shifted awkwardly and went around Carlton, stopping briefly in front of O'Hara to probably give her an encouraging smile, or some other sentimental nonsense.
"Detective Lassiter! Juliet! Did you two find anything?" Guster looked at them with hope in his eyes, only for it to die at the looks on Carlton's and O'Hara's faces.
"You already gave McNab your statement, but we have a few questions for you." O'Hara said in a voice much too calm for her usually sweet—did he just think of her as sweet? nonsense! Head Detective Carlton Lassiter never describes someone as sweet!—her usually…her usual O'Hara-ness.
"Alright, but I'm pretty sure I told McNab everything." Guster said. "But, just promise me that you'll let me know everything you can about what you find. I've known him so long, I don't even remember not knowing him." Guster's eyes took on that despaired look again. If Carlton were a weaker man, he'd have felt bad. But Carlton was not a weaker man. Carlton was cold and collective.
"Has anything weird been going on lately? Like, has Spencer been complaining about anything from 'weird vibes,' to shadows following him? Anything like that? Have you noticed anything?"
"No, not that I know of anyways."
"Do you know why Spencer didn't see this coming? I mean, some 'psychic' to have not foreseen someone—" Carlton stopped at O'Hara's glare. In all honesty, she may be only half his height, but sometimes, she scared him.
"Shawn's visions don't normally work like that. He has to have something specific to look for, not only that, but sometimes he isn't allowed to see things." Guster answered, shifting around a bit.
Liar.
"Lassiter, is that really important to know? Shawn is missing! Spare us your cynicism and let's ask something relevant!" O'Hara glared. For some reason, Guster shifted uncomfortably again. Carlton filed that bit of information for later.
"Fine. Does this look familiar to you?" Carlton held up a picture of the walking stick from the crime scene. He got the picture from one of the crime scene geeks whose name he could never remember—Hobbes, or Hills, or something like that—as he walked in along with other photos in a manila folder. They may be spineless, but those nerds were quite efficient.
Guster looked at the photo and turned a bit green.
Oh yeah, it had blood on it…woops, Carlton thought to himself as O'Hara glared at him.
"Oh my gosh, is that what I think it is? That's—that's—that's Shawn's blood, isn't it!" Guster began to freak out.
"Calm down, Guster." Carlton demanded wearily. "Put yourself together. All this means is that someone whacked Spencer on the head hard enough to really hurt. More than likely, right now, the worst he's suffering is the worst headache of his life." It was a lie of omission, really. Just a little white lie…
"Now, Guster, do you know of anyone who would make such a thing?"
iiiii
Screams that weren't his own filled the air, sharp, piercing his eardrums with the agony.
He wanted to stop him, to stop her pain, but he still couldn't move. He was scared.
Frightened.
He couldn't even scream, he just kept saying the same thing over and over in his mind…
Please stop, please stop, please stop…please…stop… But no matter how hard he tried, Shawn wasn't psychic. He couldn't stop anything using telekinetic powers. He was helpless.
iiiii
Henry Spencer knew without looking at a clock that it was 6:00 pm, he could tell by the length of the shadows cast by his armrest. It was a reliable method that he had taught his son, telling the time by shadow lengths, forcing him to have the Pythagorean Theorem down so well he could do it without missing a beat.
His son.
His son who surpassed him in observational skills, deductive reasoning, and speed. His one and only son—well, his only son as far as he knew, but his memory was a little shaky about the goings on during the spring break of his sophomore year in college, where he got his first taste of tequila, and learned that holding your beer does not mean how many you can get down before you pass out. Good times.
Every father has their regrets, and Henry was no exception. He sometimes wondered if perhaps he was just a little too hard on the guy. A little too strict. A little too demanding. A little too—oh what the heck. Henry Spenser was a hard-ass, and that's all there is to it. It was just that, when Shawn said he wanted to be a cop, he just got so excited and was a bit carried away.
Just a bit.
But, really, had he done anything wrong? He taught the kid how to think for himself, how to reason things out, see the whole picture and search for the pieces until it looked like it could mean something.
Henry remembered the first time Shawn beat him at the hat game. Yes. Beat him. He caught something Henry missed. That was one of the proudest days of his life, and the fact that it happened when Shawn was seven, made Henry no less proud—albeit, slightly embarrassed with himself at not noticing the blond lady's hat when he had seen not only her child's little beanie, but also the kid's teddy bear's baseball cap. The kid was a genius, and would've been a darn good cop, if only he hadn't had the attention span of an ADHD gnat, or if he had more of a drive to settle down.
But now, he was gone.
He was gone, and for the first time, Henry felt like a complete, utter failure.
iiiii
The Day After
iiiii
When Shawn opened his eyes, he didn't remember who he was for a moment. All he knew was that his forehead felt like a den of dragons was playing some sort of twisted, flaming game of tag. Dragons with particularly bad aim.
He tried to rub his forehead and instead felt some sort of gauze was wrapped around it.
He had no knowledge of the past two days, he didn't even know where he was.
Shawn sat up from where he was—the ground judging by the cool, hard feel of it—and looked around.
An alleyway of some sort.
What had he gotten himself into?
He didn't remember getting drunk—really! He didn't, not this time at least.
Maybe he had gotten himself into a fight? Those folks at the casino could get rough sometimes…
Shawn stood up, gripping a Dumpster for support when the world began to swim. He looked around again, but saw nothing of interest, so he walked towards the light—in a literal sense and not an allegory for death sort of way.
He looked around and began to panic.
Where was he? There was no way he was at the Casino, heck, there was no way he was even in the same city!
Shawn looked around, trying to see if he could find out where he was and if he could fix this drunken disaster. He had heard of people getting drunk and married, waking up next to a stranger in their bed and underpants waving around on the ceiling fan like a flag on the Forth of July, but this kind of stuff didn't happen to normal people, right?
Right?
Shawn shook his head—bad idea judging by the intense pain that brought on—and looked around.
No skyscrapers, so not Vegas…plus, not much advertising—which would be helpful—oh! A newspaper! Shawn picked up the newspaper and his jaw dropped.
Santa Barbara?
Forget the alcohol, someone must have slipped something crazy in his drink! Santa Barbara!
He'd sooner go back there than open up a fake psychic detective office!
There was just no way. No way!
Shawn shook his head again, a bad idea, and the world swam out of focus again. Shawn Spencer fell out onto the sidewalk, not seeing the small blue car screeching to a halt.
iiiii
Gus was driving to work, seeing Shawn everywhere, like on The Sixth Sense.
He already gotten flicked off five times, cussed out three and honked at four. He really needed to pay attention, and he was trying, but his best friend had just been abducted by a homicidal maniac and had yet to be found. The only way Gus could be calm, was if he were dead—which, of course, would solve absolutely nothing, a fact that Gus was fully aware of, thank you very much.
Spiky hair caught his eye—Shawn? No, just some other Nick Lashey wannabe.
Gus snorted. "Nick Lashey wannabe. That's pretty good. Why can't I ever come up with this stuff when I actually have an opportunity to use it?" Gus frowned again and sighed.
"WATCH WHERE YOU'RE GOING, JACK—"
Gus flinched. Oops…
"You'd be distracted too, if you're best friend disappeared. I'm just saying." Gus muttered to himself, glaring at the offending red pick up truck driver giving him the finger.
Suddenly, some dude with mangled hair fell out from behind a wall and onto the sidewalk. The man's forehead was wrapped around with white gauze, but Gus could've sworn he saw a flash of red…the man looked kind of like…but, no…it couldn't be, could it?
Nick Lashey after being hit by a truck?
Gus slammed on the brakes, turned his car off, burst through the door, running towards the fallen man. The gauze definitely had blood seeping through it, Gus could tell despite that the man was face down on the ground.
Gus gingerly turned the man over and saw none other than Shawn Spencer, his heart pounded even faster than before.
"Shawn? Shawn! Oh my gosh! Someone call 911!" Gus yelled as he checked Shawn's vital signs.
iiiii
We'll see how this goes...I have some pre-written, but I won't guarantee quick updates. I do have quite the sadistic side... Bye y'all.