A Rusty Nail
Summary: When Lassiter is kidnapped, it's Shawn Spencer, psychic detective, to the rescue! Using his ultra ninja skills, Shawn is also kidnapped. Oops. But at least he found Lassiter, right? Now, to escape! That is, if he and Lassie survive the torture...(Warnings inside.)
Rating: M, for graphic torture, blood; physical and psychological trauma; some adult language.
Disclaimer: I checked, double-checked, and even triple-checked, and I can now say with absolute certainty that I do not, in fact, own Psych.
Chapter 1
Detective Carlton Lassiter was well aware that life was nothing like a movie.
As big a fan he was of action-packed movies and car chases, he knew they weren't at all accurate. Police actually knew how to fire weapons and strike their targets. Cars didn't tend to explode in midair after bottoming out on a ramp, then flip at least three times before rolling to a stop inches from the police blockade, only for the driver to crawl out relatively unscathed.
More importantly, there were no heroes. Standard police procedure prevented lone men from breaking and entering, torturing members of a kidnapping, drug-carting syndicate, and exploding cars and houses with bullets. In real life, a single man would not be able to track down a missing person, rescue that person from the hands of a ruthless gang, and get out in less than the two hours it took to film such a movie.
But it seemed a certain psychic hadn't gotten the memo.
"Hey there, Lassie!" was the cheerful greeting Lassiter had received. Despite the split lip and swollen eye, and the new additions of bumps and bruises from being thrown carelessly down the basement stairs, Shawn Spencer grinned.
Lassiter fumed silently, struggling to keep his anger in check.
"Wow, you're really beat up, Lassie," Shawn continued, eyes giving the detective a once-over before moving on to his dark surroundings.
"What the hell have you done, Spencer?" he growled at last, eyes sharpening under his bruised lids and lips thinning beneath his scruffy beard. His voice was rough and dry, the ligature marks around his throat clear as day. His salt and pepper hair was disheveled and stuck up in odd places, and his usually impeccable suit was dirty and torn. Underneath the clothing were more remnants of his mistreatment. Like the other man's, his wrists were bound with rope behind his back.
"What have I done?" Shawn repeated incredulously, testing the strength of his restraints. "I found you. It took me this long because I had to convince the spirits that you believe in them deep, deep, deep, deep down."
"Cut the crap, Spencer!" Lassiter's voice cracked and instigated a coughing fit. He fixed a glare on the younger man, who had waited patiently. "You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into."
"Hmm," he pursed his lips. "Wouldn't have anything to do with the Humphrey case, would it?"
Lassiter's face expressed surprise and confusion.
"It was one of your biggest cases," the pseudo-psychic continued, pushing himself up onto his feet and meandering over to the steps.
The moldy room, no more than twenty by twenty feet, was devoid of anything but themselves and the stairs. The door was bolted from the outside with four heavy-duty locks, as Shawn noticed on the way in. Their only light source was the rectangular window located at the top of the far wall, layered with grime. It was about eight feet up, but too small to admit even a toddler's escape, and did little to chase away the darkness.
"Milo Humphrey, a crime boss with a very unfortunate name and, possibly, a child actor in Gossip Girl," he continued, bending to inspect the underside of the wooden railing. "He was caught red-handed, along with several of his minions, by you. In one of the few arrests you've made that did not include the firing of a gun - kudos, by the way - Humphrey managed to relay a cryptic message via text message to several blocked numbers."
As he spoke, Shawn ascended the steps, staring intently at the railing as Lassiter watched. At last, Shawn appeared to find what he was looking for and straightened, then stood on his tippy-toes and leaned back, shoulders working up and down.
"Assuming the message," Shawn grunted as he continued his mysterious ministrations, "was the location of something big, you and the SBPD tried to decipher it. Several misses later, the case went cold. Until you, in your tap dancing revelation, suddenly figured it out.
"You dropped a quick call to Jules and told her to bring backup, and then you were off to the bar to investigate. Unfortunately, she was in the shower and didn't get your message until about three quarters of an hour later. I always tell her she showers for too long, but she never listens.
"Anyway, you were recognized. You asked all the right questions to get yourself kidnapped, and you disappeared without a trace. But your captors made one fatal mistake: They forgot that I work for the SBPD, and that I have a one hundred percent solve rate." Shawn jerked forward, giving a short victorious cry.
Noting Lassiter's dubious expression, he amended, "All right, a ninety-nine point nine-nine-nine percent solve rate."
The detective rolled his eyes as Shawn clomped loudly down the stairs and then sat down beside him.
"What were you doing over there?" Lassiter asked, jerking his chin towards the stairs.
"Oh," Shawn said. "There was a loose nail. Want it? My left wrist is sprained, so you'd probably have better luck cutting yourself free than me."
Lassiter blinked surprise as Shawn turned, proffering a bent, rusty nail. Still shaking off the utter shock that Spencer had done something sensible, something that even he hadn't thought of in the four days of his captivity, Lassiter twisted the other way and accepted it.
Once the trade was complete, they both returned to their positions leaning against the damp, musty wall. Lassiter immediately set to work, picking at the tight knots.
"Everyone's worried about you, you know," Shawn said. "Jules is going out of her mind. The Chief is running on coffee vapors. She sent Dobson home crying the other day. The station is a mess without you, dude."
The detective grunted in response, mostly tuning him out. The rusty nail was making little headway, but he'd be damned if he gave up. Technically, Spencer was a civilian, and protecting civilians was his job, no matter how annoying they were on a daily basis. It was imperative that he free them both, or at least find a way to contact the police.
He cut Shawn short by asking, "How did you know all about the case?"
"My dad told me."
"Hm. And how did you find me?"
"The spirits told me."
Lassiter rolled his eyes for the twentieth time in as many minutes. "Any idea where we are?"
"I was grabbed at the harbor," Shawn replied, squinting thoughtfully. "I pretended to be unconscious after I woke up from that pistol whipping. I was alone in the backseat of a blue Honda Civic.
"We went down Shoreline Drive, passed One Thousand Step Beach, and turned onto Meigs Road; left turn Kenwood Road, around Skyline Circle to Skyline Way and onto Flora Vista Drive; through Ellings Park...And then I got dizzy and lost track, but I think we're somewhere in the Ynez mountains. I didn't really wake up again until we were in the house, and then they were mean to me, as you can see."
The detective scowled. The only really useful pieces of information was the car and the mountain range. "An 'I don't know' would have sufficed."
"Oh, come on. Give me a break. I've been pulling all-nighters looking for y- for spirits to help me find you."
Lassiter heaved a sigh, shaking his head.
"So what do they want from you, Lassie-face?"
"As far as I can tell," he replied, hissing as he prodded himself with the nail, "they're keeping me until Humphrey is let off parole."
"Parole?" Shawn pulled a face. "I thought he was in prison."
"There wasn't enough evidence to nab him for everything," Lassiter muttered bitterly. "And he got out early on good behavior, the sick bastard."
"The system works, Lassie," Shawn said dryly.
"Shut up, Spencer!"
"When's the hearing?"
"If I've been keeping track of time right, today."
"Great!" Shawn exclaimed. "So when Humphrey gets here, we'll just explain to him that his buddies out there were very rude, and he'll apologize and let us go."
"What is wrong with you?"
"I have a concussion."
"Anyway," Lassiter bit out, "we're not going to be here when Humphrey arrives. I've almost got this knot out, and then we'll escape. As far as I can tell, there's only two men up there."
"Three."
"I can take them," he insisted.
"They're armed, we're not," Shawn said, for once the voice of reason. "Unless, of course, you count that rusty nail."
"Listen, Spencer," Lassiter sighed. "Under no circumstances are you to say anything to these bastards. Do whatever they tell you to do, and keep your big mouth shut. They are notorious for their ruthlessness, understand?"
"Crystal," Shawn replied. "I've seen the pictures. But what if they tell me to talk?"
"Then you answer their questions," he said, exasperated, "but no more than that. A simple yes or no, if you can."
"You act like I've never been in a hostage situation before."
Lassiter stopped picking at the knots so that he could muster an incredulous expression and direct it at the idiot beside him. "This is not a hostage situation! There's no ransom, Spencer. Look, if you keep your mouth shut, I might be able to convince them to let you go mostly intact, but they're going to murder me. That's what they do. It's what they want."
Shawn pursed his lips. " 'Mostly intact'?"
Before Lassiter could retort, the echoing sound of a bolt unlatching interrupted them. Both men turned their heads toward the door, waiting pensively as the second lock was opened, and then the third, and finally the fourth. After what felt to be an eternity, the door swung open, and three men entered.
In the shadows, they looked quite menacing.
The one thing Lassiter was thankful for was that these men did not look like the typical "bad guys" in movies. Not one of them had a facial scar, nor did they wear an eyepatch, nor had they handlebar mustaches. They simply looked like normal, everyday men that one saw walking the street or shopping at the local supermarket - Perhaps driving their children to school in the wife's minivan.
Luckily, Shawn seemed to be heeding his advice for once, and kept his mouth shut. If Lassiter had glanced over, however, he would have noticed Shawn scrutinizing each of the gang members with a critical head tilt, eyes narrowed even further in the darkness.
Contrary to Lassiter's initial assessment, Shawn noticed that the man in the middle had a small white scar on his chin. It had likely been the result of a fall from a bike when he was child; it was a common injury. They all were about the same height - average, approximately five foot ten. The oldest appeared to be somewhere in his early forties, while the youngest could not have been a day over thirty.
All three were chronic smokers. Shawn could clearly see the bulge of a cigarette package in one's jeans pocket. The men's fingernails were stained yellow with tar from repeated exposure to tobacco smoke, and he was sure that if he were to catch a glimpse of their teeth they would show the same hygienic neglect. The premature wrinkles around their eyes and on their necks were also telltale signs. They probably smoked together, possibly played poker as they did.
At last, Shawn took a moment to appreciate the shiny, police-grade pistols in their dominant hands. The oldest man was a lefty.
"Who is he?"
It was Lefty who had spoken, directing the question to Lassiter as he gestured to Shawn. Lassiter curtly replied, "An acquaintance of mine. A coworker, nothing more."
Shawn suppressed a disappointed sigh. He should have known that Lassiter would never freely admit that he was, in fact, the head psychic detective for the SBPD. Okay, he was the only psychic detective, but that didn't mean he couldn't have a higher rank.
He decided to correct him so the men didn't get the wrong idea. "Actually, I'm -"
Shawn never got to finish his statement, as Lefty, who also happened to be standing closest to him, lashed out with his boot and caught him square in the mouth. The pseudo-psychic recoiled, grunting half in surprise and half in pain as the steeled toe connected with his lips. He was glad his mouth hadn't been opened - otherwise he might have lost a few teeth. Then the pain intensified and he groaned softly. He could practically feel his lips swelling.
At least he wasn't bleeding again. That thought was quickly reassessed when he tasted copper.
Lassiter might have felt a bit more sympathy had Shawn not spoken. As it was, he hoped the man had learned his lesson and would stay silent.
"Who is he?" Lefty repeated, shifting his gun so that it pointed straight at Shawn's face. "I want a name."
"Shawn Spencer," the detective bit out.
"Why is he searching for you? Is he not working with the police?"
It seemed obvious that Lefty was the leader, as he was the only one speaking.
"He is working with them," Lassiter answered.
"Why?"
"He has valuable - resources."
The pause as he searched for a word to describe Shawn's ability was so short that even Shawn almost missed it, but he caught it nonetheless and rolled his eyes. He pursed and relaxed his lips repeatedly, trying to fight the onsetting numbness. It hurt the clotted cut that he had received several hours ago, but there was no time to dwell on that. He discovered that the blood he was tasting was originating from his bitten tongue.
Lefty harrumphed. "If he's so valuable, why didn't your little police friends keep up with him?"
"I don't know."
"Seems he's dispensable, if you ask me."
Lassiter and Shawn both tensed at this, more acutely aware than ever of the man's finger on the trigger.
But then, much to their relief, Lefty and his men wordlessly turned to leave. They took their sweet time about it. Once they were finally out, the door closed behind them and they locked all four deadbolts.
The two captives visibly relaxed as their footsteps receded.
Until Lassiter turned to Shawn. "Sweet justice, Spencer, what did I just tell you?!"
"Lassie," Shawn sighed, "don't be the gum on the bottom of my shoe."
"You could have gotten yourself killed right then, and -"
"Oh, come on, I was just going to tell -"
"I don't want to have to deal O'Hara and your father and Guster when I tell them why -"
"You never want me to get my full dues because you're jealous of my -"
"How are you still alive with all the trouble you cause on a daily -"
"Listen, Lassie, I know you didn't get that pony you wanted when you were a kid, but -"
"How do you know about Mr. Twinkles?!"
"Psychic, duh! And, really? 'Mr. Twinkles'?"
"Shut up, Spencer! Now is not the time to -"
Their bickering was interrupted by the sudden ferocious sound of a dog growling. Startled, Shawn looked down at Lassiter's stomach. "Are you hiding Lassie, Jr. in there?"
For the first time during his captivity, Lassiter was glad that his beard had grown out. It served well to hide the red flush that crept across his cheeks. "I haven't much to eat these past few days."
Shawn looked at him incredulously. "They haven't fed you in four days?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Spencer," Lassiter retorted. "I've been given one meal a day. It's not the most nutritional, but it keep me alive, at least."
The younger man frowned thoughtfully. "What do they give you?"
"A slice of stale white bread, a dry wedge of cheddar cheese, and half a glass of lukewarm milk."
Shawn looked at him as though waiting for the punchline. When none was forthcoming, his jaw dropped in horror. "Oh, my god! Dude, we've gotta get out of here. I can't live on that! Oh, god! HELP! SOMEBODY HELP US!"
"Spencer!" Lassiter snapped.
Shawn sat back down calmly, chuckling a little. Lassiter rolled his eyes when he realized that the psychic was making a game of it. He shook himself a little, remembering that he had a mission. He fitted the rusty nail back into the knot he had been struggling with and set to work.
They remained in an almost companionable silence, but as with all silences, Shawn felt the overwhelming need to break it.
"I'm sorry I got caught," he said seriously, spitting a suspiciously dark liquid. "I was getting too close without calling backup. As usual."
Lassiter paused in his ministrations and looked at Shawn, eyebrows scrunched together. The psychic wasn't looking at him, a sign that he was being sincere.
He heaved a sigh and rolled his shoulders. "It's not like you meant to get captured, Spencer," he said gruffly, leaving out that he had made the same mistake not even a week ago. "Why don't you get some sleep?"
Shawn smiled a little. "You'll wake me when it's time to go, right?" he asked. "You're not going to leave me?"
The unspoken 'even though I'm really annoying and you dislike me' hung at the end of the question. It actually stung Lassiter a little, to tell the truth. Though he had sadistically imagined different scenarios that involved the younger Spencer's bodily harm, he never intended - nor wanted - for it to ever happen.
"I'll think about it," Lassiter replied. There was no venom in his words, though. There was a promise in it, and Shawn heard it loud and clear.
"G'night, Lassie," Shawn said brightly.
The detective merely grunted in response as Shawn lay on his side, wriggling into as comfortable a position as he could manage with his hands roped behind his back. Lassiter quietly continued loosening the knot, listening to the slow and steady sound of Shawn's breathing. Soon enough, both men were asleep, the rusty nail in Lassiter's hand forgotten for the night.