AN: A sequel as promised! Poor Shawn. I have whumped him. But Shawn whumpage leads to shower timez!
xxxxx
Our beloved faux psychic was unprepared for the Arizona sun. Having worn heavy Levi's, his leather jacket, and full helmet, the summer sun had beat down on him and seemed to have evaporated the water in his body before he even had the chance to sweat it.
To keep his mind off the heat coming from above and below, having been reflected off the asphalt of Interstate 10, Shawn thought back over the past seven months. Lassiter had been good. Damn good. There hadn't been a single trace. The detective had bought a plane ticket to New York, one to Washington, and one to Ohio. He had also purchased hotel rooms in each place, and had somehow managed to check in at each of them on the same day at the same time. After Shawn had called each and found out none of the occupants were actually Lassiter, Shawn had met a dead end. Because after all of that had been paid for, Lassiter had cashed everything. After months of fruitless searching, Shawn finally had the bright idea to call Lassiter's sister. Lauren had been quiet helpful. She told him that she and her brother had been sending letters back and forth since he had left, and she had no problem providing Shawn with his new address. Shawn also couldn't help the feeling that just maybe Lady Lassie had been privy to what had gone on between her big brother and the psychic. . . .
Shawn leaned slightly to guide his motorcycle towards Exit 303 and soon found himself in Tombstone. He kept driving through the quaint little town to the touristy/"ghost town" part where Lauren had said Lassiter now worked. Exhausted and a little dizzy, Shawn pulled into a space and made his way through the dusty streets to the little saloon. Shawn pushed through the swing doors and had to immediately stop for his vision to adjust to the darkened interior. After blinking a few times, he could see the saloon was a typical old southwest saloon. The kind you'd see in John Wayne cowboy movies. The place was empty, save for a young woman in period dress standing behind the bar. She smiled warmly at him and Shawn took that as an invitation to all but collapse on one of the bar stools. He took his jacket off, and used it as a pillow as he lay his head down on the worn wood of the bar top.
"Hey, honey, I take it you're not from around here, huh?"
Shawn opened his eyes and looked at the woman, her black hair twisted into a bun, and dark blue eyes worried.
"No . . ." He was just so tired. And dizzy.
"Oh, honey." She sets a bottle of water next to him and Shawn goes to get his wallet, but she stops him by laying her hand on his arm. "It's on the house, honey. Take a drink. There you go. Now, what brings you out here in the middle of July? A girl?"
Shawn gives a weak laugh as he takes little sips of the water. "A boy, actually."
"Is that so? Well, tell me about him."
"I don't even know who you are."
"Francine Thomas, but everybody calls me Franz. What's your name?"
"Shawn Spencer."
"Spencer, huh? I know a Spencer. He plays our Wyatt Earp. Booker doesn't talk much."
"Booker Spencer? That's kind of a mouthful."
"Yeah, but what can you do? It's not like we pick our names. Now, you just rest, Shawn."
Shawn nods and lays his head down again, trying to get the room to stop spinning. Distantly, he heard someone else walk in, complete with the clinking sounds of spurs.
"Hey, Sheriff!"
"I'm not a sheriff," responded a rather familiar, grumpy voice.
"That shiny star on your chest says otherwise."
"It isn't real, Franz."
"No, but the kids think so, and that's all the matters." The pair was quiet and Shawn could hear the man take one of the stools to his right. "You need to drink more water, Booker."
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not. And I'm not letting you out of here before you drank a bottle. Same goes for you, Cali."
Shawn assumed Franz had directed that last bit at him so he gave her a thumbs up. Then he tilts his head to see the other occupant. "Huh . . . you look a lot like someone I know. But you can't be him. His hair wasn't as long, and he wasn't as tan." He sits up, but his easy smile falters and his eyes become glazed. "Shit." And then everything went black.
xxxxx
AN: I wasn't going to end it here, but I thought it worked out pretty nice. Evil, but nice. I think I'll do the next chapter of Soul now. Or I'll do the sequel to Daydream…titled Snickerdoodle…aka Shassie Porn!